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THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  DATE 
INDICATED  BELOW  AND  IS  SUB- 
JECT TO  AN  OVERDUE  FINE  AS 
POSTED  AT  THE  CIRCULATION 
DESK. 


MUSINGS 
FIRE     AND 


BY    CAMP- 
WAYSIDE 


North  Caroli^^^it&re  Library 


-^il^  Raleigh 


MUSINGS  BY  CAMP- 
FIRE  AND  WAYSIDE 


By 

WILLIAM  CUNNINGHAM  GRAY 

Editor  of  the  Interior 


FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  NEW  YORK  TORONTO 

MCMII 


COPYRIGHT      MCMII     BY 
FLEMING   H.   REVELL   COMPANY 


00  9 


PRINTED  BY  R.  R.  DONNELLEY 
&  SONS  CO.,  AT  THE  LAKESIDE 
PRESS,     CHICAGO,    ILL.,      MCMII 


puiacz 


THE  papers  inclosed  in  these  covers  were, 
with  the  exceptions  indicated,  written  in 
the  Northern  woods,  and  drawn  from  the 
surroundings.  Having  there  acquired  resources  of 
health  which  have  made  old  age  so  far  the  pleasant- 
est  period  of  my  life,  I  desire  here  to  enter  a  plea 
for  our  own  country.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  our 
deluded  people  pour  in  a  dizzy  tide  across  the  sea  in 
quest  of  pleasures  which  are  only  to  be  found  at 
home;  enjoyments  and  benefits  incomparably  supe- 
rior to  any  that  can  be  found  elsewhere  left  un- 
tasted  and  unaccepted.  There  are  two  American 
gulf  streams  flowing  across  the  Atlantic  to  Europe, 
the  one  marine,  the  other  social.  They  both  irrigate 
those  otherwise  unhappy  lands  with  rains  and  gold, 
but  both  of  them  are  headed  for  the  melancholy 
Arctics. 

The  country  boy  knows  that  when  he  drives  his 
cows  to  a  fresh  clover-field  they  will  rush  all  over 
it,  and  from  side  to  side,  in  quest  of  pasture  as 
good  as  what  they  are  trampling:  the  same  with 
the  American  man  or  woman  turned  loose  upon  the 
world.  Such  Americans  reserve  the  ample  room 
and  fresh  air  allotted  to  them  by  their  own  generous 
country,  for  their  future  state  of  existence  in  a 
cemetery.  The  only  reservation  they  make  is,  that 
3 


4  Preface 

they  shall  not  be  pushed  and  jammed  and  crowded 
after  they  are  dead. 

We  Americans  stand  for  liberty,  and  have  wasted 
no  end  of  windy  rhetoric  in  extolling  our  quality 
and  quantity  of  it,  and  then  journey  for  our  pleas- 
ure to  where  we  are  hedged  about  with  customs  and 
manners,  limitations  and  restrictions,  which  are  as 
absurd  as  they  are  annoying.  Fortunately,  the  best 
things  in  life  are  not  purchasable;  they  would  not 
be  best  things  if  they  were.  Among  them  are  vaca- 
tions, which  are  sweetened  and  spiced  with  a  little 
money,  such  as  one  can  afford,  but  gravied  by  a 
great  deal.  Discontent  is  a  good  thing.  It  makes 
us  go,  as  fuel  does  the  locomotive ;  but  overcharged 
with  it,  we  do  nothing  but  sizzle  and  smoke. 

Our  Atlantic  mountain  ranges  are  replete  with 
lovely  scenery  and  a  most  interesting  people.  Our 
northern  frontiers  and  Canada  are  jeweled  with 
lakes  as  beautiful  as  the  sun  shines  on,  shadowed 
with  noble  forests  and  laced  with  lovely  streams. 
The  Pacific  ranges,  from  our  southern  borders  to 
the  Arctics,  are  made  up  of  clusters  of  peaks,  cas- 
cades, interlocked  lakes,  glaciers,  and  forests  which 
have  no  rivals  in  Europe.  The  canons  of  the 
Yellowstone,  Colorado,  and  Yosemite  need  not  be 
described.  For  uniqueness,  brilliancy  of  colors, 
and  grandeur,  they  have  no  rivals  that  are  known  or 
accessible.  Nor  need  I  speak  of  the  astonishing 
beauty  and  strangeness  of  the  Yellowstone  National 
Park.     To  Alaska  no  description  can  do  justice.     It 


Preface  5 

contains  no  less  than  sixty-five  active  volcanoes, 
and  thousands  of  extinct  craters  which  are  either 
the  cups  of  cerulean  lakes  or  the  birthplaces  of 
magnificent  glaciers.  The  Muir  is  most  accessible 
and  best  known,  but  one  which  issues  from  Redoubt 
Mountain  leaps  from  a  cliff  of  a  thousand  feet,  in 
huge  emeralds,  which  whirl  and  flash  as  they  fall. 
It  is  admitted  that  nowhere  else  can  so  delightsome 
a  voyage  be  found  as  that  between  Seattle  and 
Juneau.  There  is  nowhere  a  more  beautiful  island 
than  Kadiac ;  nor  is  there  any  coast  where  mount- 
ains, snow-clad  from  head  to  heels,  rise  sheer  thir- 
teen thousand  feet  out  of  the  sea — spectacles  of 
incredible  and  appalling  grandeur. 

More  quietly  delightful  and  yet  as  health-giving 
is  an  outing  of  tent-camping,  easily  accessible  and 
small  of  expense.  Better,  however,  is  a  log  cabin 
and  a  camp-fire  in  some  locality  chosen  for  its 
waters,  wildness,  and  beauty.  Such  outings  are 
supposed  to  be  appropriate  only  for  men,  but  women 
should  go.  More  than  men  they  need  to  break  the 
monotony  of  life  squarely  off,  and  make  a  summary 
riddance  of  it.  Let  them  make  wood-nymphs  of 
themselves.  Whoever  heard  of  a  Diana  suffering 
from  nervous  prostration,  or  a  naiad  sending  a  satyr 
post-haste  for  Hippocrates? 

A  woman  can  never  fully  appreciate  the  refine- 
ments of  her  home  till  she  have  an  opportunity  to 
contrast  them  with  their  opposites — not  the  oppo- 
sites  found  in  poverty,  overcrowding,  and  squalor, 


6  Preface 

but  those  which  make  the  contrast  between  nature 
and  artificiality.  Nothing  under  the  sky  is  so  pure 
and  sweet  as  virgin  forests  and  waters,  nor  is  there 
anywhere  such  beauty  and  refinement  in  art  as  that 
which  pervades  them.  Solitude  brightens  society, 
and  society  sweetens  solitude.  The  monotony  of 
the  home  gives  exhilaration  to  the  tent,  and  the 
tent  gives  appreciation  for  the  home.  We  are  not 
to  seek  contrasts  between  things  that  are  desirable 
and  those  which  are  offensive,  but  find  restful  vari- 
ety rather  in  that  which  is  pleasing  both  in  nature 
and  in  art.  We  shall  find  in  the  wilderness  not  only 
new  objects  of  interest,  but  we  will  discover  in  our- 
selves, both  in  mind  and  in  body,  new  powers  and 
new  capacities  for  activity  and  enjoyment. 


Note, — Some  years  ago,  at  the  solicitation  of  friends,  I 
gathered  a  bunch  of  my  Camp-Fire  Musings  and  published 
them  in  a  small  volume.  It  was  well  received,  and  ran  to 
a  sale  of  a  few  thousands,  but  being  unsatisfactory  to  myself, 
it  was  withdrawn.  Some  of  the  contents  of  that  volume 
have  been  recast  for  this,  a  notice  that  is  due  to  any  into 
whose  hands  a  copy  of  the  former  book  may  have  fallen. 

W.C.G. 


a  moth  3IntroDuctori? 


T/iese  musings  were  selected  for  publication  by  Dr. 
Gray  during  the  few  months  immediately  preceding  the 
time  of  his  home-calling.  Had  his  beloved  hand,  his 
warm  heart,  and  his  ever-progressive  mind  given  them 
final  preparation,  doubtless  there  would  have  been  some 
revision — the  necessity  for  which  must  be  left  to  the 
individual  judgment  of  the  reader.  It  has  been  deemed 
best  to  leave  the  volume  just  as  it  came  from  his  hand, 
and  if  occasionally  there  be  a  diamofid  in  the  rough,  the 
discerning  will  properly  estimate  it  at  its  polished  value. 

The  illustrations  are  reproductions  from  photographs 
taken  by  Dr.  Gray — a  further  tribute  to  his  artistic 
sense. 


Contend 


CAMP-FIRE   MUSINGS  ^^^^ 

I.  The  Camp-fire         -           -           -  -       15 

II.  Nature  and  the  Supernatural      -  25 

III.  Nature  and  Culture        -           -  -       39 

IV.  Nature's  Music,  Art,  and  Industry  62 
V.  The  Tragical  in  Nature      -           -  71 

VI.  The  Music  of  the  Spheres        -  -       81 

VII.  Hunting    -----  gz 

VIII.  Nature's  Intelligence     -          -  -      99 

IX.  Refreshing  Rain          -           -          -  114 

X.  This  Paradise  of  Ours     -          -  -     124 

XI.  Through  a  Forest       -           -          -  134 

MUSINGS   OF   THE   SOUTH 

XII.  Wayside  Musings    -           -          -  -     143 

XIII.  Wayside  Musings         -           -          -  152 

XIV.  Wayside  Musings    -           -          -  -     160 
XV.  Aspects  of  Southern  Prosperity  -  167 

XVI.  The  South— Scenic  and  Educational       177 

ALASKAN   MUSINGS 

XVII.  Snoqualmie  Falls  -           -           -  -     187 

XVIII.  Along  the  Northern  Line  -          -  195 

XIX.  Aboard  the  "Bear"          -          -  -     203 

XX.  Alaskan  Volcanoes     -          -          -  211 

9 


Contents 


PAGE 

XXI.  Dutch  Harbor         -          -          -  -     222 

XXII.  Among  the  Islands      -          -           -  231 

XXIII.  Scenic  Grandeur  of  Alaska     -  -     242 

XXIV.  At  Orca 248 

XXV.  The  Alaskan  Mines          -          -  -     254 

WHAT  ADAM  DID  IN  EDEN 

XXVI.  The  Realms  of  Mystery             -  -     267 

XXVII.  The  Adam  of  Genesis            -           -  277 

XXVIII.  Adam's  Conquests   -           -           -  -     290 

XXIX.  Adam's  Wife       -           -           -           -  300 

XXX.  Adam  the  Hunter             -           -  -     3" 

AT  EVENTIDE 
XXXI.  Expiring  Embers— A  Study  of  Death      327 


mt  of  3iiimtxatiom 


W.  C.  Gray Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

The  Island  from  Iron  River  Trail        -  -       15 

Clear  Lake  ---... 
The  Trout  Stream      .... 


25 

-  39 

Double  Vista  Looking  Toward  the  Mainland  62 
The  Dining-Room         -          .          .          -           .81 

An  Hour's  Sport    .....  ^2 
The  Boathouse             -           -           .           . 
The  Library           -           .          .          .          . 

The  Landing      .          -          -          .          ,          -  124 


Iron  River  Trail 


99 
114 


134 


Island  Lake      --....     327 


CAMP-FIRE     MUSINGS 


MUSINGS  BY  CAMP- 
FIRE   AND  WAYSIDE 


The  Camp-Fire 


MANKIND  has  never  willingly  relinquished 
the  camp-fire.  It  is  not  preference,  but 
necessity,  that  has  driven  him  indoors. 
Even  there  he  carried  and  rekindled  its  embers,  and 
it  became  the  hearth-fire:  a  flame,  sister  to  the  flame 
of  love.  So  much  he  rescued  from  the  loss  of  Para- 
dise. It  is  not  till  the  overcrowding  of  his  own  kind 
has  exterminated  the  game  and  ravaged  the  forests 
with  steel  and  fire,  and  not  till  the  increase  of  com- 
peting herds  has  exhausted  the  pastures,  that  man 
will  fence  in  for  himself  a  patch  of  the  wilderness, 
domesticate  for  himself  a  few  of  its  birds  and  quad- 
rupeds, and  build  for  himself  a  castle.  Civilization 
is  to  him  a  choice  of  evils,  and  he  has  never  forgot- 
ten nor  ceased  to  long  for  Paradise,  with  its  unlim- 
ited breadth  and  freedom — with  its  camp-fires  glim- 
mering on  distant  hill  or  mountain-side  or  stream; 
their  rays  telling  of  fellowship,  hospitality,  and  lib- 
erty. Civilization  is  tyranny.  At  its  best  it  is  the 
15 


1 6       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  a?id  Wayside 

most  tyrannical.  Its  limitations  and  restrictions 
follow  us  and  harass  us  wherever  we  are  and  what- 
ever we  do,  and  remind  us  at  every  turn  that  we  are 
slaves.  It  intrudes  upon  us  in  most  unreasonable 
and  capricious  particulars.  We  may  not  wear  com- 
fortable clothing,  must  swelter  in  the  heat,  be  sod-, 
den  in  the  rain,  and  pinched  and  frozen  in  the  cold. 
It  follows  us  with  its  requisitions  from  the  cradle  to 
the  grave,  and  snatches  at  our  fleeing  spirits  for  a 
further  dole. 

Our  little  boys  do  not  forget.  They  are  epit- 
omes of  the  early  life  of  the  race,  as  their  whole 
lives  will,  in  old  age,  be  handbooks  of  the  history 
of  man,  each  individual  volume  complete  in  itself. 
The  charming  little  barbarians  do  not  forget.  In 
no  way  can  they  be  more  delighted  than  by  permit- 
ting them  to  build  a  mimic  camp-fire,  a  thing  which 
has  no  attraction  except  curiosity  for  any  other 
creature  that  creeps  or  flies.  To  the  boy  it  is  a 
resistless  attraction  and  an  unfailing  delight. 
Wordsworth  finds  expression  for  this  fact  in  the 
higher  realms  of  being  when  he  says: 

"Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 

The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 
Hath  elsewhere  had  its  setting, 

And  Cometh  from  afar: 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness. 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home." 


Norfh  Cai-'  -^  f  ;l 

^^>vs,.  '^  Library 


The  Camp-Fire  17 

Nature  is  a  munificent  mistress,  but  slie  is  a 
sulky  slave.  We  may  grow  plants  under  glass,  but 
their  flowers  are  without  perfume  and  their  fruit 
without  flavor.  We  may  bring  in  the  roots  of  the . 
cranberry  and  strawberry,  and  be  sure  from  the 
growth  in  form  and  color  that  we  have  effected  a 
capture,  only  to  find  that  the  exquisite  tang,  the 
spirit  of  the  fruit,  has  fled  back  to  the  woods.  We 
do  not  know  whether  nature  weeps  or  laughs  at  our 
blackberries  and  raspberries,  backed  stiffly  up 
against  the  garden  fence,  and  fettered  with  pieces 
of  lath;  but  seek  out  those  of  her  own  growing,  in 
some  secluded  nook,  the  hooked  vines  bending  with 
ebon  or  ruddy  clusters,  hidden  away  under  canopies 
of  dewy  leaves,  while  a  saucy  bird  scolds  at  you 
from  a  twig  above. 

We  have  domesticated  the  duck,  but  we  have 
failed  to  domesticate  its  beautiful  plumage  and  its 
matchless  flavor.  The  speckled  beauty  which  cuts 
the  foam  of  the  cascade  with  your  line  is  nature's; 
hers  the  bass  which  makes  it  sing  like  a  harp;  hers 
the  muskallonge  which  puts  such  an  ache  in  your 
fingers,  as  you  handle  the  reel,  that  you  think  you 
can  stand  it  no  longer.  Compare  a  quarter  of  beef, 
hung  at  the  door  of  a  marketman's  shop,  with  the 
sudden  apparition  of  a  crowned  stag,  in  his  new 
uniform  of  blue,  upon  the  shore  of  a  lonely  lake;  or 
a  roast  of  pork  in  a  basket  to  a  bear  shambling 
along  a  hillside.  Nature's  birds  of  plumage  and  song 
are  not  for  your  prison.     The  poor  canary  does  his 


1 8       Mtisings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

best  to  remember  the  music  of  his  tribe,  but  how 
can  he?  How  can  he  sing  the  songs  of  Teneriffe  in 
a  strange  land?  What,  indeed,  are  his  best  efforts 
to  the  mellifluous  ring  of  the  thrush  in  our  own 
woods?  Your  love  at  a  summer  resort  is  sweet — 
there  is  no  denying  it;  but  you  are  not  to  her  what 
you  would  be  in  a  ramble  with  her  alone  in  a  soli- 
tary wilderness.  It  is  as  chivalrous  as  the  circum- 
stances will  permit  to  pick  up  her  purposely  dropped 
glove;  but  what  is  that  to  gathering  her  in  your 
arms,  and  wading  the  swirling  rapids  or  the  treacher- 
ous swamp,  letting  her  rest  timidly  yet  securely  upon 
your  stalwart  manhood,  endurance,  and  courage. 

There  is  an  impalpable,  invisible,  softly  stepping 
delight  in  the  camp-fire  which  escapes  analysis. 
Enumerate  all  its  charms,  and  still  there  is  some- 
thing not  in  your  catalogue.  There  are  paths  of 
light  which  it  cuts  through  the  darkness;  there  are 
elfish  forms  winking  and  twisting  their  faces  in  the 
glowing  ash-veiled  embers ;  there  are  black  dragons' 
heads  with  red  eyes,  and  jaws  grinning  to  show 
their  fiery  teeth;  the  pines  whisper  to  the  silence; 
the  sentinel  trees  seem  to  advance  and  retire;  you 
may  hear  the  distant  scream  of  the  wolf,  or  the 
trumpet  of  the  moose,  or  the  note  of  a  solitary 
night  bird,  or  the  more  familiar  note  of  the  loon. 
All  these  surround  and  conceal  some  other  delight, 
as  the  body  veils  while  it  reveals  the  soul. 

Our  birth  is  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting,  and  yet  a 
remembering.     It  is  the  memory  of  the  wide,  wide 


The  Camp-Fire 


world  that  has  come  down  to  us  in  our  blood,  and 
of  the  camp-fire  of  our  tribal  ancestors,  and  of 
their  and  our  original  ancestor  who  built  his  camp- 
fire  under  the  trees  of  the  garden,  eastward  in  Eden. 
Sitting  in  its  glow  we  are  home  again,  though  we 
know  it  not,  nor  can  tell  whence  cometh  the  delight. 
It  is  rest  and  freedom  from  care.  The  sheltering 
trees  look  down  upon  us  with  calm  pleasure,  and 
soothe  us  to  sleep  with  their  whispered  lullaby — a 
song  which  the  mother  yet  sings  to  the  baby  cradled 
upon  her  breast,  without  knowing  who  composed  it 
or  whence  it  came. 

There  was  a  rush  for  home,  a  tumbling  together, 
and  away  we  flew,  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  due 
north,  the  last  dozen  of  it  in  a  caboose  of  an  iron- 
ore  train,  which  slacked  up  for  us  far  out  in  the 
trackless  forest.  The  tumbling  Brule  in  front,  the 
charming  Chicagoan  Lake  back  of  us  in  the  woods, 
a  spring  of  the  sweetest,  coldest  water  at  the  root 
of  an  old  hemlock;  pines,  birches,  cedars,  maples, 
all  around.  The  first  question  that  is  asked  me  at 
home  is,  "How  about  the  mosquitoes?" — a  question 
which  displays  ignorance  of  this  high-spirited  siren. 
She  is  a  stickler  for  etiquette.  She  demands  pre- 
cedence in  the  procession  and  attention  to  her 
music.  She  bites  you  because  you  invade  her  urban 
temples  before  she  has  finished  her  oratorios.  You 
must  wait  till  she  has  concluded  her  outing,  sung 
her  last  madrigal,  and  gone  over  to  bite  the  angels. 
There  is  nothing  mean  about  her.     She  does  not, 


20       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

like  her  human  counterpart  at  Newport  or  Saratoga, 
seek  to  monopolize  everything.  She  leaves  all  her 
possessions  to  you  for  the  most  delightful  months 
of  the  year,  August,  September,  and  October. 

"Charlie's"  ax  is  ringing,  and  down  comes  a 
hemlock.  What's  that  for?  Your  bed,  of  course. 
The  tent  is  spread.  The  corner  selected  for  sleep- 
ing is  piled  with  hemlock  twigs,  and  a  sweeter  bed, 
or  one  more  springy,  is  not  to  be  had  for  love  or 
money.  First  a  rubber  blanket,  then  a  sheet, 
and  then  a  woolen  blanket,  and  sleep  needs  no 
wooing. 

Everything  here  that  is  found  is  in  unbounded 
opulence.  Amid  thousands  of  square  miles  of  vir- 
gin forests,  and  with  good  axes  in  hand,  why  should 
we  not  have  imperial  camp-fires?  The  knack  of  the 
axman,  when  acquired  in  boyhood,  is  never  lost. 
The  blow  that  will  go  deepest  and  throw  out  the 
encumbering  chip  is  an  achievement  of  high  art. 
And  such  fires  as  rewarded  a  half-hour's  labor! 
The  logs,  cut  from  twelve  to  fifteen  feet  long,  and 
piled  high,  have  the  promise  and  potency  of  three 
splendid  fires,  one,  and  the  first,  from  the  middle 
portion,  and  one  more  to  be  taken  as  required  from 
each  end.  Three  cords  of  good  wood  for  an  even- 
ing is  no  waste,  and  the  air  is  cold  enough  to  make 
the  heat  as  agreeable  as  the  flame  is  inspiring. 
While  no  desolation  is  so  sad  as  a  fire-swept  forest 
or  city,  yet  the  destructive  agent  is  the  source  and 
the    revealer   of    all    material    beauty   and    glory. 


The  Camp- Fire  21 

Nothing  that  was  known  to  primitive  men  was  so 
worthy  an  object  of  worship.  It  awakens  a  sense 
of  dangerous  power  like  the  lion;  of  lithe  beauty 
like  the  leopard ;  of  whelming  mastery  like  the 
flood.  Yet  it  delighted  the  eyes,  warmed  the  heart 
as  well  as  the  hands,  was  a  warrior  against  the  cold, 
a  signal  for  the  lost,  a  sentinel  which  drove  off 
beasts  of  prey.  The  spirit  of  the  fire  was  the  spirit 
of  a  man,  as  kindly  and  as  fierce — a  thing  of  human 
contradictions.  "Fire  that  is  kept  closest  burns 
most  of  all";  and  whether  in  the  passions  or  in 
literal  coals,  is  wedded  to  bitter  ashes  and  smirch. 
But  our  camp-fire  waves  banners  of  joy  and  fires 
volleys  of  victory.  With  savage  imprecations  Cali- 
ban resented  his  task  of  bringing  in  the  logs,  and 
Ferdinand  posed  as  a  martyr  of  love  when  Prospero 
put  upon  him  the  same  burdens. 

"  My  sweet  mistress 

Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work,  and  says  such  baseness 

Had  never  like  executor." 

Miranda  was  sure  the  burning  logs  would  weep 
for  having  wearied  him,  and  woman-like,  wanted  to 
carry  them  herself. 

"  If  you'll  sit  down 
I'll  bear  the  logs  the  while:  pray  give  me  that; 
I'll  carry  it  to  the  pile" — 

and  more  of  that  exquisite  story  of  love  and  logs. 
There  was  this  difference  between  the  two  scenes: 
our  girls  were  all  married ;  Miranda  wanted  to  be. 
I  will  not  say  that  our  girls  would  not  have  helped 


22       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

us  carry  the  logs  if  there  had  been  any  occasion  for 
it.  The  specific  evidence  of  this  love-loyalty  on 
their  part  was  that  they  insisted  on  punching  the 
fire. 

The  campers  in  these  solitudes  are  not  solitary. 
In  the  daytime  the  trees  are  trees.  Very  beauti- 
fully and  loftily  the  spires  of  pine  and  hemlock  rise 
out  of  the  valley,  and  the  birch  and  maple  over- 
shadow us,  but  they  are  only  trees.  At  night, 
when  the  torch  is  applied  to  the  wealth  of  accumu- 
lated fuel,  they  are  trees  no  longer.  They  leave 
their  places  and  come  out  of  the  darkness  to  join 
our  company.  They  say  not  a  word,  and  yet  not 
even  to  man  is  given  such  a  variety  of  character 
and  so  much  of  the  mystery  of  the  spiritual  world. 
We  catch  the  thought  of  that  white  and  stately 
birch — calmness,  purity,  and  dignity.  And  so  of 
that  mighty  pine,  somber  and  lofty.  This  rustling 
maple  is  an  old  friend.  We  understand  him.  He 
is  no  mystic,  no  poet.  He  talks  about  sweetness, 
shade,  and  beauty — familiar  topics. 

That  keen  but  musical  and  somewhat  plaintive 
note  which  sounds  so  far  and  clear  through  the 
forest  is  that  of  the  white-throated  sparrow.  There 
is  a  tramping  heard  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  the 
cause  of  which'  is  revealed  by  deer-tracks  in  the 
morning  near  the  tents.  A  few  squirrels  invite 
themselves  to  breakfast,  one  little  chap  taking  his 
piece  of  cracker  in  his  right  hand.  The  crossbills 
and   moose-birds   soon   establish  confidential   rela- 


The  Camp- Fire  23 

tions  with  us.  The  sweetly  plaintive  song  of  the 
sparrow  suggested  an  interpreter — that  its  "fancies 
into  fancies  linking"  should  be  transferred  from  the 
leaves  of  the  forest  to  the  leaves  of  memory — that 
the  bird  should  be  asked  to  confess  all  that  was  in 
its  little  overful  heart;  therefore: 

the  poet  and  the  white-throated  sparrow. 
The  Poet : 

Sweet  sprite  of  the  forest  unseen 
'Mid  its  canopies  somber  and  green, 

Art  thou  Love  that  is  baffled  and  crossed  ? 
Is  the  cry  that  we  hear, 
So  plaintive  and  clear, 
Sweet  Love  in  the  wilderness  lost  ? 
Ah  me — me — me  ! 

The  Sparrow  : 

And  dost  thou  not  know,  my  sweet  swain, 
That  Love's  the  twin  brother  of  Pain, 

And  reaches  the  heart  through  a  wound  ? 
I'm  not  Love  that  is  crossed, 
I'm  not  Love  that  is  lost, 
I  am  Love  in  the  wilderness  found. 
Ah  me — me — me  ! 

The  Poet : 

Aphrodite  was  born  of  the  sea. 
And  so  it  has  happened  for  me — 

My  white  lily  bloomed  on  the  tide; 
Her  sweet-breathed  charms 
Floated  up  to  my  arms — 
Fate  must  have  decreed  her  my  bride. 
Blest  me— me — me  ! 


24       Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

The  Sparrow  : 

But  nymphs  who  are  bom  of  the  sea 
You  know  are  capricious  and  free, 
And  sometimes  defiant  of  fate. 
Remember,  sweet  swain, 
Like  Rapture  and  Pain, 
That  Love  is  the  brother  of  Hate. 
Ah  me — me — me  ! 

The  Poet: 

Sad  sprite  of  the  forest,  thy  song 
Is  omen  of  pitiless  wrong, 

And  sweetly  bemoaneth  my  fate. 

Too  oft,  as  with  you. 

The  false  wins  the  true — 

Love's  arrows  are  stolen  by  Hate. 

Ah  me — me— me  ! 


CLEAR      LAKE. 


Nature  and  the  Supernatural 


IT  has  been  a  day  of  rain — the  pines  are  sighing 
in  the  wind  and  tossing  their  plumy  branches 
as  if  flurried  and  disturbed.  The  pine  is  a 
sensible  tree.  When  the  wind  is  so  strong  as  to 
endanger  its  hold  in  the  earth,  it  casts  off  limb 
after  limb,  until  its  strength  of  root  and  bole  are 
adequate  to  hold  the  remainder  of  its  foliage  against 
the  gale.  It  strips  itself  to  the  conflict,  and  yet 
sacrifices  not  a  twig  that  it  can  safely  retain. 

The  evening  camp-fire  burns  low.  One  by  one 
the  brands  have  dissolved  into  coals,  and  one  by 
one  the  little  circle  has  retired  into  the  cabins  and 
gone  to  sleep.  I  take  from  a  pile  of  the  skeleton 
of  a  dead  pine  one  of  its  huge  resinous  bones  and 
cast  it  on  the  coals.  The  surrounding  trees  have  all 
retired  into  the  silent  darkness  to  repose  from  the 
toils  of  the  stormy  day — now  with  its  wrestling 
winds  also  gone  into  the  darkness  of  the  past.  Im- 
mediately the  yellow  flames  shoot  up  high,  and  the 
trees  step  out  of  the  darkness  on  silent  feet,  with  a 
surprised  expression,  as  if  to  say,  as  they  look 
down  upon  me,  "Why,  we  did  not  expect  you  to 
call  for  us  again."  And  there  they  stand  waiting, 
with  the  stars  glittering  in  their  tangled  hair. 
25 


26       Musi7igs  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

The  pine  is  a  prime  soldier  in  the  army  of  the 
forest,  rising  tall  and  straight  to  a  gracefully  droop- 
ing crown  of  sprays,  which  in  blooming-time  is  set 
with  resinous  diamonds.  Swayed  by  the  breeze  in 
the  sunbeams,  they  flash  and  sparkle,  disappearing 
and  reappearing  at  an  angle  of  the  light.  He  unites 
his  strength  with  his  fellows  to  resist  the  tempest 
and  toss  it  skyward — and  it  must  be  a  tornado  of 
very  great  power  that  is  able  to  lay  that  Mace- 
donian phalanx  low.  The  soft  breathing  of  the 
pines  in  the  wind  high  overhead  appears  to  have 
been  attributed  by  primitive  men  to  the  wings  of 
flying  spirits.  The  word  employed  by  them  to 
designate  spirit  or  soul  was  breath.  When  Jehovah 
came  to  reinforce  the  army  of  Saul,  his  movement 
was  heard  as  "a  going  in  the  tops  of  the  mulberry 
trees."  The  balsam  gave  to  church  architecture 
the  fretted  and  pinnacled  spire  pointing  to  heaven 
as  the  source  of  its  sanctity.  The  maple,  antici- 
pating the  night  of  winter,  borrows  its  colors  from 
the  setting  sun.  Moses  received  a  revelation  from 
God  from  a  tree  which,  while  it  was  burning,  was 
unconsumed,  waving  its  branches  of  brilliant  colors 
as  if  the  tints  of  heaven  had  descended  upon  the 
earth.  Bryant  describes  the  arches  of  the  forest  as 
God's  first  temples,  which  they  were,  as  they  were 
man's,  and  to  them  he  resorted  to  find  sanctity  for 
his  worship.  When  he  would  build  a  temple,  he 
sought  in  the  forest  forms  which  would  most  nearly 
conform  to  the  ideals  of  the  divine,  and  which  he 


Nature  and  the  Supernatural  27 

therefore  thought  would  be  most  pleasing  and 
attractive  to  his  God,  He  copied  his  pointed  arch 
from  the  aisles  of  the  forest,  and  it  became  a 
sacred  form,  and  yet  everywhere  signifies  worship. 
His  foliated  pillars  he  took  from  the  palms,  his 
spires  from  the  balsams,  his  gargoyles  from  super- 
natural creatures  which  he  imagined  to  inhabit  the 
woods.  When  he  had  finished  his  temple,  the  more 
nearly  it  represented,  in  its  groined  arches,  pillars, 
and  lights,  what  he  saw  while  looking  up  and 
around  him  in  the  forest,  the  more  fully  it  satisfied 
his  worshipful  spirit.  He  would  tempt  God  to 
come  out  of  his  dwelling-place  in  the  wilderness 
and  live  with  him  in  the  city,  therefore  he  built  for 
him  a  forest  of  stone.  In  these  temples  religion 
reached  its  highest  and  purest  conception  of  the 
divine — conceptions  which  it  did  not  and  never 
could  have  reached  in  treeless  lands.  The  Oriental, 
who  went  to  the  cliffs  and  caves  for  models  for  his 
sacred  architecture,  worshiped  a  god  stony  of  heart 
and  of  hands.  When  this  god  was  carried  over  into 
forested  Europe,  ages  were  required  to  rehumanize 
him,  and  this  work  of  divine  transformation  the 
trees  had  not  fully  accomplished  before  they  were 
hewn  down  to  make  room  for  the  husbandman. 

The  civilized  man  of  the  woods  also  further 
sought  to  please  God  and  beguile  him  into  living 
with  him  in  the  city,  by  reproducing  the  music  of 
the  forest,  which  he  knew  God  preferred.  In  his 
chants  and  anthems  and  intoned  prayers  he  sought 


28       Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

to  repeat  the  long-drawn,  solemn  sounds  which  the 
winds  drew  from  the  trees,  and  he  built  his  organs 
of  pipes  and  reeds,  carefully  feeling  his  way  back 
to  the  melodies  of  Paradise.  When  the  great  mas- 
ters, Mozart,  Beethoven,  and  Wagner,  rose  and 
began  to  fill  their  higher  octaves  with  bird-song 
and  the  flutter  of  wings,  the  human  soul  was  enrapt- 
ured. When  the  lost  chord  of  Paradise  had  been 
found  again,  it  was  immediately  recognized  by  all 
the  finer  souls  which  heard  it,  for  the  human  spirit, 
passing  down  from  form  to  form  and  from  life  to 
life,  does  not  forget,  though  it  may  not  have  had  a 
reminder  for  a  thousand  years. 

A  soul  that  is  open  to  the  influences  of  nature 
feels  the  presence  of  the  divine  in  the  forests. 
When  the  clamor  and  jar  and  discordant  noises  of 
the  city  are  shut  out,  one  feels  that  he  has  passed 
into  another  world,  which  contains  no  point  of 
resemblance  or  reminder  of  the  one  he  has  left; 
that  he  is  in  another  atmosphere,  not  only  in  its 
superior  freshness  and  purity,  but  also  that  infused 
into  it  is  a  purer  element,  a  spiritual  pervasion, 
which  the  soul  breathes  as  the  nostrils  do  the 
material  atmosphere.  There  is  an  uplift,  an  inspi- 
ration, a  joy  which  he  never  experiences  in  the  city. 
This  is  not  an  individual,  but  a  common,  experi- 
ence. There  is  a  reason,  therefore,  in  nature  and 
in  the  constitution  of  man,  why  trees  should  have 
always  been  associated  with  imaginings  of  the  super- 
natural, and  why  these  aisles,  or  cathedrals,  built 


Nature  and  the  Supernatural  29 

in  imitation  of  them,  should  have  always  been 
regarded  as  accessories  necessary  in  divine  worship. 

The  all-pervasiveness  of  the  spiritual  has  always 
been  instinctively  recognized  by  man.  While  it  is 
an  atmosphere,  it  is  also  a  component  part  of  fixed 
organisms.  As  there  is  no  clear  line  of  division  in 
the  range  of  life,  none  between  the  organic  and 
inorganic,  none  between  the  vegetable  and  animal 
kingdoms,  and  none  between  the  simpler  and  more 
complex,  the  lower  and  the  higher  forms  of  life,  as 
the  ascending  gradations  are  formed  by  added  com- 
plexities of  function  and  action,  so  also  there  is  no 
sharp  separation  between  the  material  and  the 
spiritual.  Trees  have  souls;  into  their  organiza- 
tion the  spiritual  enters,  as  it  does  in  all  other 
forms  of  life,  with  differing  and  ascending  degrees 
of  capacity  and  endowment. 

On  the  shore  of  the  lake  a  graceful  little  hen- 
snipe  fluttered  out  and  pretended  to  be  badly  hurt. 
I  knew  she  was  lying  to  me — telling  me  a  justifiable 
white  lie,  and  besides  that  was  casting  reflections 
upon  my  character — saying  that  she  thought  I  was 
both  cruel  and  mean  enough  to  destroy  the  lives 
of  her  innocent  children.  I  saw  one  of  the  chicks, 
saw  exactly  where  it  stopped  under  the  side  of  a 
decaying  log,  and  went  to  pick  it  up.  I  knelt 
down  close  and  looked  a  good  while.  At  last  I  saw 
one  bright  eye,  and  then  the  whole  form  of  the 
before  invisible  chick,  which  was  open  to  plain  view 
not  two  feet  from  my  nose  all  the  time,  was  seen. 


30       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

I  took  it  in  my  hand  and  it  lay  perfectly  motionless. 
It  knew  that  resistance  would  be  vain.  Then  I 
took  out  a  pocket-lens  to  look  at  its  suit  of  clothes. 
There  is  no  use  for  any  one  to  say,  or  to  try  to 
explain,  that  that  coat  of  feathers,  which  looked  so 
much  like  rotten  wood  that  you  could  not  distin- 
guish it  two  feet  from  your  eyes,  and  which  also 
was  a  perfect  invention  for  lightness,  dryness,  and 
warmth — no  use  to  say  that  that  coat  of  feathers 
was  not  made  on  purpose,  and  with  wonderful  in- 
genuity and  skill.  What  the  young  bird  needed 
was  a  coat  that  should  be  light,  dry,  warm,  and  of 
the  color  of  the  driftwood  that  floated  in  and 
decayed  upon  the  shore.  The  color  was  not  diffi- 
cult, but  the  texture  was  a  triumph  of  inventive 
genius.  A  tiny  feather-stem  was  made  to  grow 
straight  out  from  the  broodling's  skin.  At  the 
height  of  a  sixteenth  of  an  inch  it  threw  out  a  top 
of  branches  like  the  top  of  a  little  pine.  These 
were  closely  woven  and  intertwined  with  the  tops 
of  other  feather-stems,  making  a  surface  impervious 
to  air  or  water,  enclosing  between  it  and  the  skin  a 
stratum  of  air,  the  best  non-conductor  of  heat  (or 
cold)  in  existence.  Who  invented  and  made  this 
admirable  robe  for  the  little  chick-snipe?  Did  God? 
I  do  not  think  he  did. 

Creative  work  is  the  most  delightful  occupation 
for  mind  or  hands.  The  child  shows  it  by  the 
avidity  with  which  it  seizes  upon  and  tries  to  employ 
tools.     Every  one  longs  for  skill,  and  for  leisure  to 


Nature  and  the  Supernatural  3 1 

enjoy  it.  The  artist  with  his  brush,  the  author 
with  his  pen,  the  architect  with  his  air  castles — into 
every  avenue  of  imagination  and  skill  men  and 
women  enter  if  they  can.  If  they  cannot,  they  look 
with  longing;  if  they  can,  and  succeed,  they  are 
filled  with  joy  and  triumph.  Next  to  creating,  the 
pleasure  of  looking  upon  its  beautiful  wonders  is 
the  highest.  This  passion  fills  galleries  with  paint- 
ings, libraries  with  books,  streets  with  noble  archi- 
tecture, parks  with  labyrinths  and  fountains,  avenues 
with  carriages;  and  on  the  sea  displaces  wide  hulks 
with  those  graceful  leviathans,  which  are  neither 
bird  nor  fish,  but  which  swim  while  they  fly,  and  fly 
while  they  float. 

The  infinite  Creator  has  as  much  to  do  as  an 
infinite  Creator  can  do  in  infinite  time.  He  has 
infinite  space  to  fill  with  forms  of  beauty  and  glory — 
and  infinitudes  are  equal.  He  is  the  joy-giver  to 
all  his  creatures.  Shall  we  hesitate  to  say  that  he 
imparts  to  those  whom  he  loves  the  powers  and 
possibilities  necessary  to  the  sharing  with  him  of 
this  purest  and  highest  of  pleasures,  the  pleasure 
of  creating?  He  who  is  companion  and  friend  to 
all  who  seek  him — would  he  deny  to  them  the 
delight  of  helping  him  in  this  charming  task? 

He  does  not.  Men  and  women  paint  birds  and 
flowers,  but  they  cannot  make  them  live.  They 
possess  and  control  chemical  and  mechanical  forces, 
but  the  vital  force  is  beyond  their  grasp — detained 
from  them  because  they  have  as  yet  neither  mental 


32       Musi7i^s  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

nor  moral  qualifications  for  using  such  a  power 
wisely,  just  as  we  restrain  children  from  handling 
the  delicate  appliances  of  the  laboratory  or  studio. 
But  as  men  and  women  rise  toward  God's  moral 
and  spiritual  perfections,  they  will  rise  in  the  pos- 
session of  his  powers.  "He  withholdeth  no  good 
thing  from  those  who  walk  uprightly." 

Two  lovely  twin  children  were  born  upon  the 
earth,  a  boy  and  a  girl.  The  little  girl  as  child  and 
woman  was  passionately  fond  of  birds  and  flowers, 
the  boy  was  never  so  happy  as  when  permitted  to 
wander  alone  in  the  forests  or  push  his  canoe  up 
the  difficult  rapids  or  over  the  mirror-bosom  of  the 
lake.  They  lived  lives  of  faith  and  beneficent  serv- 
ice to  God  and  their  fellow-creatures — and    died. 

Their  first  emotion  on  opening  their  eyes  in  the 
spiritual  world  was  inexpressible  gratitude  and  love. 
When  they  saw  the  Lord  Christ  they  ran  to  him — 
not  even  his  glorious  majesty  and  dignity  could 
daunt  their  love — fell  at  his  feet  and  bathed  them 
with  tears  of  overflowing  joy. 

"What  would  you  have  me  do  for  you,  my  little 
ones?"  he  said,  tenderly,  as  he  stroked  and  lifted 
them  up. 

"Give  us  some  new  power  for  serving  and  prais- 
ing you,"  they  replied,  with  one  voice. 

He  smiled  with  a  peculiar  expression  of  pleasure. 
Even  God  likes  to  indulge  in  pleasant  surprises  for 
his  children. 

"Do  you  see  yonder  white  star?"  he  said,  point- 


Nature  and  the  Supernatural  33 

ing  out  into  the  blue.  "The  third  world  in  its  train 
is  new.  Go  you  and  make  and  paint  me  some  flow- 
ers for  its  adornment,  and  weave  me  some  robes  for 
my  birdlings  there.  And  you — make  me  some 
forests  for  its  hills  and  plains." 

How  they  thanked  him,  and  how  they  flew! 

They  found  that  others  had  preceded  them. 
One  dashing  spirit  with  a  taste  for  curiosity  and 
color  had  formed  an  orchid  to  grow  in  the  ground. 
Another  still  more  daring  had  formed  one  which 
would  grow,  rootless,  in  the  air.  Our  earth-born 
spirit  pondered  long  how  she  might  best  please  the 
Lord;  and  when  her  first  work  was  completed — lo, 
the  passion-flower! 

Her  brother  found  an  aspiring  genius  building 
up  a  forest  of  towering  redwood,  another,  an  artist, 
trimming  and  draping  a  tree,  which,  when  he  had 
finished  it,  proved  to  be  something  like  the  cut- 
leaved  birch.  Remembering  that  his  Lord  had 
compared  himself  to  a  vine,  he  applied  himself  to 
the  production  of  one  which  should  be  lovely  of 
aspect,  sweet  of  bloom,  and  of  unmatched  flavor 
and  aroma  and  color  of  fruit.  Time?  There  is  no 
time  in  eternity! 

We  traced  ecclesiastical  architecture  to  its 
sources  in  the  forests — mentioning  the  spire,  the 
arch,  the  gothic  pillar,  and  the  gargoyle.  This  last 
and  much  of  the  grotesquery  which  art  employs  to 
emphasize  and  set  off  its  harmonies  is  found  in  a 


34       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

camp-fire,  which,  shining  in  a  forest,  is  always  highly 
picturesque.  It  gives  different  spectacular  results 
with  different  qualities  of  fuel.  If  the  wood  be 
new,  partly  seasoned,  and  sound,  the  flame  is  of  pink 
and  white,  with  shadings  of  purple,  red,  and  of  other 
colors,  and  rises  vigorously,  while  the  brands  crum- 
ble in  large,  solid  coals  of  luminous  gold.  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  the  attractiveness  of  gold  is 
due  to  the  inherited  memory  of  the  camp-fire. 

Should  there  be  an  admixture  of  dozed,  damp, 
slow-burning,  and  partly  decayed  wood,  then  we 
have  a  display  of  everything  possible  to  grotesque 
fancy.  It  yields  black  as  a  background,  and  upon 
this,  partly  obscured  by  black  smoke  whirling  in 
little  eddies,  we  have  a  veritable  inferno,  filled  with 
every  imaginable  and  unimaginable  demon  and 
monster. 

I  had  seen  the  shapes  which  dwell  and  writhe 
and  gleam  and  wink  their  fiery  eyes  in  a  camp-fire 
of  dozed  wood  somewhere  sculptured  in  stone — was 
familiar  with  their  forms  and  countenances — where 
was  it?  Ah!  I  remember:  masks  and  gargoyles  in 
the  architecture  of  the  old  cathedrals — those  of 
York  Minster  I  remember  most  clearly.  They 
poke  their  reptilian  heads  out  from  the  angles  of 
the  towers,  show  their  heavy  faces  and  grinning 
teeth  in  the  relievo  friezes.  Those  which  had  been 
exposed  to  three  centuries  of  rain,  sunshine,  and 
wind  had  been  partly  decerebralized — the  tops  of 
their  heads  had  been  worn  off,  which  made  them 


Nahire  and  the  Supernatural 


35 


more  reptilian  in  aspect  than  the  sculptor  intended, 
but  they  are  dull  of  color,  solid,  immovable,  dead — 
having  but  a  single  impression  to  communicate, 
that  of  form,  and  that  not  a  pleasing  one,  nor  in- 
tended to  be.  The  camp-fire  gargoyles,  on  the 
contrary,  are  of  every  conceivable  grotesqueness  in 
form  and  action,  every  ferocity  of  eye,  absurdity  of 
nose,  curious  lifting  of  the  lips  as  of  an  angry  beast, 
constantly  changing  and  reforming — living  pictures 
of  the  outr^  done  in  ash,  black,  and  fire.  If  one  is 
musing  on  absent  friends,  he  will  see  their  initials 
in  the  fire:  the  old  man  those  of  his  absent  com- 
panions, living  or  dead,  the  young  man  those  of  his 
sweetheart,  the  young  girl  those  of  the  coming 
prince. 

Though  the  wind  may  have  been  blowing  all  day, 
and  even  though  it  may  have  developed  into  a 
hurricane,  with  the  setting  sun  and  the  gathering 
shades  the  air  becomes  still.  "The  wind  will  go 
down  in  the  evening,"  we  always  say.  And  so  the 
winds  should  go  down  around  us  amid  the  falling 
dews  and  gathering  shadows  of  death.  This  came 
to  mind  to-day  when  a  letter  was  brought  in  an- 
nouncing the  death  of  a  friend,  a  minister,  who  had 
literally  died  of  harassing  persecution.  It  filled  my 
eyes  with  tears  and  my  tongue  with  maledictions. 
But  the  storm  that  buffeted  him  is  past,  and  he 
sleeps  well.  As  I  sit  under  the  sleeping  trees,  an 
evening  is  recalled  which  lies  farthest  back  in  my 


36       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

memory.  The  scene  is  dim  in  the  distance  of 
threescore  years.  I  was  seated  with  my  father  in 
the  open  farm-wagon  going  home.  The  evening 
had  closed  down  and  the  road  lay  through  stretches 
of  the  original  forest.  He  told  me  a  story  of  perse- 
cution which  filled  my  young  heart  with  indignation 
and  revenge.  "That  was  years  ago,  my  son,"  he 
said,  "and  I  have  watched  the  whip  of  God  as  the 
years  went  by.  I  saw  its  blows  falling  and  falling 
continually,  and  it  never  ceased  till  the  last  man  of 
them  was  lashed  out  of  the  world."  My  father's 
words  are,  in  my  memory,  like  a  torch  illumining 
the  immediately  surrounding  scene.  What  went 
before  and  what  followed  after  are  in  oblivion. 
The  whip  of  God!  And  I,  too,  have  seen  it  falling 
and  falling.  "With  what  measure  ye  mete  it  shall 
be  measured  to  you  again."  Stripe  for  stripe,  blow 
for  blow,  measure  for  measure.  Whether  God's 
whip  shall  be  a  rod  of  chastisement,  wielded  in 
love,  or  a  scourge  of  scorpions  lashing  men  out  of 
the  world,  it  is  for  those  to  choose  upon  whom  it 
falls.  When  God  marked  Cain,  he  did  not  throw 
the  brand  away. 

In  solitude  one  becomes  absorbed  in  the  small 
things  around  him.  No  phenomenon,  however 
trivial,  fails  to  attract  his  attention — the  wind, 
weather,  clouds,  and  all  forms  of  animal  and  vege- 
table life — these  are  his  companions,  and  he  invests 
them,  or  rather  he  discovers  that  they  are  invested 
and  permeated,  with  something  above  the  material. 


Nature  and  the  Supernatural  37 


A  tree  is  not  more  obvious  to  the  physical  eye  than 
the  spirit  of  the  tree  is  apparent  to  the  vision  of  the 
spirit.  There  is  a  spiritual  atmosphere  pervading 
the  woods  which  the  soul  breathes  as  really  as  his 
nostrils  do  the  pure  air.  There  are  spiritual  pres- 
ences, both  bodied  and  unembodied,  and  they  are 
all  friendly  and  wish  to  be  companionable.  These 
trees  have  souls,  and  they  are  pure  in  heart,  with- 
out a  malevolent  trait — most  gentle  and  accessible 
and  desirous  to  be  serviceable.  It  is  an  inspiration 
to  gain  access  to  their  society  and  to  their  confi- 
dence. I  suppose  that  this  presence,  this  pervading 
spiritual  atmosphere,  is  God,  and  am  glad  to  so 
believe,  because  it  is  so  gentle  and  kind,  uplifting 
and  inspiring.  God  is  not  to  be  found  by  intro- 
spection, by  searching  our  hearts.  There  is  prob- 
ably less  of  him  there  than  there  is  in  one  of  these 
apple-blossoms.  We  are  a  good  deal  more  liable  to 
find  self  there  than  God.  I  do  not  know  whether 
this  beautiful  tree,  in  its  new  spring  robes,  is  spiritu- 
ally individualized,  or  whether  it  is  a  transparent 
medium  through  which  God  shines — each  tree 
revealing  something  of  him  that  is  peculiar  to  itself, 
and  therefore  having  a  semblance  of  individuality — 
but  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  it  has  its  individual 
soul.  There  are  gentle  murmurs  and  whisperings 
coming  in  from  the  surrounding  waters  and  forests; 
sometimes  voices  which  one  can  hear  if  he  will 
listen.  Though  I  do  not  know  with  certainty  from 
whom  or  what  they  come,  I  believe  them  to  be  the 


38       Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

voices  of  God,  either  direct  or  through  friendly 
spirits.  I  know  by  their  tones  and  their  gentleness 
that  they  are  friendly.  The  voices  appear  to  come 
as  vibrations  of  the  atmosphere  of  universal  kind- 
ness— an  atmosphere  which  is  to  the  wings  of  angels 
what  our  material  atmosphere  is  to  the  wings  of 
doves  and  bees.  These  voices  take  on  at  times  a 
plaintiveness  and  an  anxiety,  like  that  of  a  mother 
searching  here  for  a  lost  child.  I  suppose  these 
callings  from  the  spiritual  world,  of  which  the 
material  world  is  a  part,  as  the  root  is  part  of  the 
tree,  and  the  foundation  of  the  fagade — I  suppose 
they  may  be  heard  at  any  time  of  life  if  one  incline 
to  listen,  but  I  hear  them  more  distinctly  now  than 
when  I  was  young;  yet  Bryant,  in  his  youth,  wrote: 

"  When  thoughts  of  the  last  bitter  hour  come 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony  and  shroud  and  pall 
Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at  heart, 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  nature's  teachings." 


S&mm  ti^e  m)ith 


Nature  and  Culture 


THE  sun  set  clear  one  evening,  and  we  were 
up  at  dawn  the  next  morning  for  an  ex- 
cursion to  Ox  Creek,  eleven  miles  away.  It 
is  fine  to  be  on  a  forest  trail  at  sunrise.  It  is  fine 
anywhere  to  be  up  and  off  at  the  first  color  of  dawn. 
Thedewdropson  the  tree-tops  glitter  when  the  sun- 
beams reach  them ;  the  birds  are  more  animated  than 
at  any  other  time;  there  is  hope  and  expectancy  all 
abroad,  and  in  ourselves.  It  is  the  nearest  return 
to  the  jubilance  of  youth  that  one  can  make  in  life. 
I  can  hear  across  sixty  years  the  ringing  echoes  of 
the  wood-thrush  as  I  rode  through  the  forest  to  carry 
the  butter  to  the  market-town  before  sun-up.  It  is 
like  an  echo  in  a  cathedral,  only  infinitely  softer 
and  sweeter.  Oh,  those  days  of  barefoot  freedom! 
All  the  world  a  glorious  and  charming  mystery!  It 
never  occurred  to  me  that  there  were  limitations.  It 
would  not  have  surprised  me  had  the  thrush  flut- 
tered down  to  my  shoulder  and  whispered  some 
delightful  secret  in  my  ear,  nor  if  the  trees  had 
bidden  me  a  happy  good  morning. 

But  Nature  has  her  little  hells.  They  are  a 
necessity  to  her,  as  they  are  to  human  and  divine 
society.  One  of  these  in  the  midst  of  Paradise  is 
a  tamarack  swamp. 

39 


40       Musing;s  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

I  had  a  pair  of  dry  moccasins,  each  with  a  shaker 
sock  in  it,  fastened  to  my  belt,  my  camera  and  plate- 
holder  strapped  to  my  shoulders,  and  the  tripod  in 
hand,  and  right  into  the  clear  swift  stream  I  went, 
in  ordinary  shoes  and  stockings.  Might  as  well — I 
never  went  trouting  in  boots  that  I  did  not  get  them 
full  of  water  the  first  two  minutes — and  the  higher 
they  came  the  worse  they  were,  because  they  would 
hold  more.  The  clear  stream  came  up  to  my  knees. 
Why  not  go  along  the  margin?  I  hardly  believe  a 
rabbit  could  have  done  it.  Get  into  a  tangle  of 
those  alders  and  swamp-willows,  and  one  is  about  as 
helpless  as  a  fly  in  a  spider's  web.  Then  it  is  such 
beautiful  walking  on  the  pebbly  bottom!  One  does 
not  have  to  step — just  lift  a  foot  and  the  swift  cur- 
rent carries  it  forward;  but  undertake  to  wade 
up! — two  feet  of  unbroken  snow  would  be  easy  com- 
pared with  it.  The  darting  trout  were  as  clearly 
visible  as  if  they  were  swimming  in  the  air.  An 
enormous  pickerel  did  me  the  honor  not  to  be  afraid 
of  me,  but  swam  around,  the  embodiment  of  lithe- 
ness.  Wherever  he  went  there  was  a  scatterment. 
He  is  the  shark  of  fresh  waters.  On  and  on  I  went, 
taking  an  occasional  photograph,  and  at  last  noti- 
cing a  sunny  hillside,  left  the  stream,  wrung  out  my 
clothes,  and  put  on  dry  socks  and  moccasins  and 
started  on  the  return. 

There  was  a  ravine  ahead,  and  I  foolishly  sup- 
posed it  to  be  narrow — a  not  uncommon  mistake  in 
those  who  are  tempted  into  evil  ways.     The  precept, 


Nature  and  Culture  41 

"Avoid  the  very  appearance  of  evil,"  does  not  apply 
to  a  tamarack  swamp,  because  it  appears  to  be  very 
good  and  pretty.  For  example,  that  beautiful 
hammock  of  moss  will  stand  you  on  your  head  if  it 
get  a  chance.  That  solid  bit  of  turf  will  take  in  a 
whole  leg,  making  a  tripod  of  you.  The  lovely 
glade  is  made  up  of  deception  and  lies,  from  side 
to  side  and  from  end  to  end. 

And  then  there  is  such  ruffianly  rudeness  in  the 
behavior  of  the  tamaracks.  They  strike  you  a  blow 
on  one  side  of  the  head,  and  immediately  brace  you 
up  by  hitting  you  on  the  other.  They  pull  off  your 
hat  and  toss  it  a  rod,  and  as  for  your  shins,  I  had 
to  bathe  one  of  mine  for  a  week  in  Pond's  Extract 
of  Hamamelis.  One  needs  as  many  eyes  as  a  fly — 
that  can  look  at  the  heavens  above,  and  the  earth 
beneath,  and  the  waters  under  the  earth,  at  the 
same  glance — and  as  he  has  but  two,  and  the  two 
good  only  for  one  ray  at  a  time,  while  one  thing  is 
making  injurious  reflections  upon  him,  a  dozen 
others  are  assaulting  him.  The  tamarack  is  the 
devil's  own  tree.  It  is  no  good  for  building,  and 
if  you  try  to  use  it  for  firewood,  it  will  burst  your 
stove,  or  if  in  a  grate,  will  send  firebrands  all  over 
the  house,  with  reports  like  rifles.  I  am  down  on 
the  tamarack,  or  at  least  I  was  that  day,  about  a 
dozen  times.  Not  even  the  shaking  ague  can  live 
in  a  tamarack  swamp.  The  trees  greedily  eat  up 
the  microbes,  which  shows,  in  addition  to  their 
Other  evil  qualities,  what  a  depraved  appetite  they 


42       M2isings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

have.  But  then  one  can  always  get  a  drink  of  per- 
fectly pure  cold  water  at  a  tamarack  root — and 
usually  he  needs  it.  And  thus  it  is  with  the  gehen- 
nas  of  society,  whether  in  this  world  or  life,  or  in 
any  other. 

We  estimate  the  sky  by  what  it  covers,  and  the 
land  by  what  it  contains,  because  man  creates  for 
himself  both  the  earth  and  the  sky,  and  the  invisible 
heavens  also.  The  world,  its  scenery,  skies,  and 
people,  is  but  the  material  out  of  which  each  indi- 
vidual constructs  a  world  for  himself,  which  he 
enjoys  if  it  be  enjoyable,  or  which  gives  him  only 
misery  if  it  be  miserable.  We  are  each  of  us  indi- 
vidual color-screens,  and  our  characters  are  known 
by  what  we  absorb  or  eliminate,  and  by  what  we 
receive  and  reflect.  Where  hateful  people  are, 
there  everything  is  hateful.  The  sky  above  them 
repels  us,  the  landscape  in  which  they  dwell  has  no 
beauty.  We  call  it  a  God-forsaken  place — the 
devil's  country.  The  very  memory  of  it  is  repug- 
nant to  us.  We  desire  to  get  away  from  it  and  to 
forget  it.  One  mean  man  will  contaminate  a  whole 
village  by  his  presence,  and  one  powerful  rascal 
curse  a  state  and  smirch  its  fair  fame.  Nature 
possesses  all  the  qualities,  in  the  highest  perfection, 
which  make  people  charming.  She  is  herself  the 
ideal  of  perfect  culture.  But  she  has  a  gentle  dig- 
nity and  a  kindly  but  positive  reserve.  She  with- 
draws herself  from  the  view  of  the  coarse,  the  cruel. 


Nature  and  Culiure  43 

and  the  depraved.  They  never  obtain  the  smallest 
glimpse  of  her  form  or  face,  or  have  a  suspicion 
of  her  presence.  She  might  condescend  to  teach 
them,  but  she  knows  it  would  be  in  vain.  She  is, 
therefore,  exclusive,  and  is  accessible  only  to  those 
who  partake  of  her  own  refined  and  beautiful  spirit. 
Nature  has  not  the  exclusiveness  of  what  we  call 
"society."  She  reveals  herself  to  the  gladdened 
eyes  of  the  child.  There  could  be  no  more  pathetic 
examples  of  baffled  sympathy  than  are  seen  in  the 
rows  of  poor  and  struggling  plants  set  in  the  win- 
dows of  a  crowded  tenement.  Nature  tries  amid 
the  poisoned  and  sulphurous  air  to  carry  a  smile  to 
the  poor,  and  the  poor  thus  reach  out  longing  hands 
to  Nature.  It  is  a  joy  to  believe  that  each  shall  yet 
be  fully  satisfied. 

Nature  is  the  only  university.  Her  teaching  is 
free,  with  a  generous  and  delightful  freedom,  and 
her  splendid  doors  are  ever  open  with  a  welcoming 
hospitality.  She  takes  the  dimpled  hand  and  leads 
the  toddling  feet  of  the  little  child  into  her  charmed 
circle  of  beauty  and  mystery.  The  growing  boy 
rejoices  in  what  he  does  not  yet  understand,  and 
the  sage,  having  spent  a  life  in  her  school,  knows 
that  he  has  only  begun  to  appreciate  the  infinite 
opulence  of  her  knowledge  and  the  inexhaustible 
kindness  of  her  maternal  heart  toward  her  studious 
sons  and  daughters.  There  is  no  better  argument 
for  design  than  that  the  Creator  ideally  projected, 
built,   and  endowed    this  celestial    institution    and 


44       Musings  by  Carnp-Fire  and  Wayside 

filled  it  with  learners;  nor  is  there  any  better 
attestation  of  immortality  than  the  extreme  im- 
probability that  he  should  have  lavished  so  much 
time,  care,  wisdom,  and  wealth  upon  it  if  he  had 
no  use  for  the  students  after  their  graduation. 
Nature  is  the  sole  subject  and  source  of  all  litera- 
ture, all  art,  all  science,  and  of  all  worthy  religion. 
She  is  the  great  astronomical  observatory,  a  wheel- 
ing cyclorama  of  the  stars,  and  her  laboratories  are 
filled  with  instruments  both  for  celestial  and  terres- 
trial research. 

The  majestic  pines  have  great  loftiness  and  dig- 
nity, but  no  airs  of  condescension.  Nature  does 
not  stoop  to  us,  but  lifts  us  up  to  herself.  We  are 
as  lofty  as  the  trees,  as  pleasing  as  the  lakes,  and 
as  tranquil  as  the  hills.  If  one  intelligently  study 
Nature  he  will  need  no  other  monitor  in  self-culture 
and  refinement,  and  as  it  often  appears  to  me,  no 
other  priest  in  religion.  As  we  enter  these  primi- 
tive forests  and  float  upon  these  unsullied  waters, 
what  is  it  in  them  which  fills  us  with  delight?  First, 
it  is  the  all-comprehending  personal  freedom,  espe- 
cially the  moral  freedom.  Everything  about  us  is 
so  friendly.  There  is  not  an  envious  eye,  nor  a 
critical  nor  a  venomous  tongue,  anywhere  in  the 
all  abroad.  Everything  is  benevolent  as  well  as 
beautiful.  Not  one  of  these  trees,  flowers,  lakes, 
streams,  birds,  or  wild  animals  will  do  us  harm,  or 
seek  to  tyrannize  over  one's  person,  property,  or 
opinions;  but  all  of  them,  in  earth,  water,  or  sky, 


Nature  and  Culture  45 

are  seeking  to  give  us  pleasure;  and  it  is  not  a 
passive  but  an  active  service  which  they  are  render- 
ing to  each  other  and  to  us.  It  was  a  true  inspira- 
tion which  led  the  Puritans  and  the  Pilgrims  to  go 
to  the  American  wilderness  in  search  of  religious 
liberty.  There  was  no  inquisitor,  heresy-hunter,  or 
persecutor  in  the  cathedrals  of  the  forests.  There 
were  no  slave-hunters,  carrying  in  their  hands  man- 
acles for  the  mind.  Nature  is  free  and  munificent 
in  her  offers  of  knowledge.  Her  book  is  unclasped, 
plainly  printed,  and  open  to  the  light  of  the  sun. 
We  have  but  to  learn  to  read.  When  God  would 
make  the  great  human  race,  he  cradled  it  under  the 
trees;  when  he  would  make  a  nation  great,  he  led 
it  out  into  the  unroofed  wilderness. 

All  about  me  is  a  carpet  of  brown,  touched  here 
and  there  with  the  scarlet  of  wintergreen  and 
pigeon-berries  and  the  purple  of  blueberries.  As 
I  walk  upon  it  my  footfalls  cannot  be  heard.  The 
pines  are  rough  barked  and  stalwart;  but  listen  to 
their  breathing — how  softly  strong  it  is!  Notice 
that  bending  frond  of  goldenrod.  A  bee  is  tram- 
pling over  it  with  great  haste,  thrusting  her  tongue 
hurriedly  into  this  yellow  gold-chased  cup,  and  then 
into  that.  She  springs  into  the  air,  and  after  a 
moment  of  wavering  and  angular  flight,  finds  her 
bearings,  and  goes  straight  and  swiftly,  circles  a 
moment  over  the  hive,  and  then  alights  on  its  bal- 
cony.    Her  wings   are   scarcely  folded  when   her 


46       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

honey-laden  legs  are  in  full  play,  and  she  runs  with 
all  her  energy  toward  the  portal.  A  sentinel 
brushes  her  face  with  her  antenna,  but  she  does 
not  pause  to  return  the  salutation.  Apply  your  ear 
to  the  roof  of  a  hive.  There  is  a  low  hum  of 
industry  so  soft  that  it  would  lull  one  to  sleep. 
One  can  hear  a  sharper  note  occasionally — some 
word  of  direction  or  command,  probably.  This, 
too,  is  a  society — a  human  society  on  a  different 
scale  of  being,  of  thought,  of  animating  purpose. 
Among  the  thousands  of  individuals  in  that  com- 
munity there  is  not  a  trace  of  selfishness.  The 
whole  of  life  is  given  to  the  whole;  and  of  the  war- 
riors who  go  forth  to  battle  for  the  defense  of  the 
realm,  not  one  returns  alive.  Beyond  this,  self- 
sacrifice  and  heroism  cannot  go,  because  there  is 
no  moral  land  either  farther  or  higher.  I  pass  over 
what  was  a  noble  forest  here,  of  living  trees,  majes- 
tic and  sublime,  to  find  it  a  sandy  desert  broken  by 
fire-blackened  stumps.  But  that  bee  did  not  destroy 
the  goldenrod,  she  fructified  it.  She  was  not  met 
on  the  balcony  by  another  bee  full  of  envy  and 
avarice,  who  tried  to  sting  her  and  rob  her  of  her 
hard-won  honey,  and  of  the  credit  of  winning  it. 
The  busy,  soothing  hum  is  the  voice  of  harmony,  of 
good-will,  of  kindly  thrift.  There  is  no  discord 
either  of  voice  or  work  in  the  beehive.  The  com- 
munity has  enemies  which  it  is  armed  to  resist.  It 
has  only  one  species  of  friends,  man.  But  men 
care  no  more  for  the  bees  than  for  the  hornets. 


Nature  and  CulttLre  47 

They  are  friends  for  a  consideration,  just  as  they 
are  among  themselves.  The  bee  workers  are  bee 
women.  Possibly  God,  who  likes  to  paint  in  con- 
trasts, did  this  to  set  off  a  vain,  selfish,  rapacious 
woman,  and  show  what  a  hateful  thing  she  can  make 
of  herself. 

But  there  are  true  love  and  friendship  in  the 
world,  nevertheless.  Under  ordinary  circumstances 
they  are  not  readily  isolated  and  distinguished. 
Cut  a  piece  of  brass  freshly  across,  and  you  will  not 
separate  it  from  gold.  But  apply  a  drop  of  acid  to 
it,  and  instantly  the  green  envy  and  the  poison  ver- 
digris of  a  base  nature  appear.  Touch  a  seeming 
friendship  with  a  drop  of  adversity,  and  you  have 
the  same  result.  Apply  the  acid  to  the  pure  quality, 
and  it  eats  away  the  grime  only,  leaving  the  virtue 
shining  with  a  purer  luster.  God's  friendship  and 
the  bee's  friendship  are  not  liable  to  adulteration 
and  debasement. 

But  we  must  not  allow  our  pride  to  flatter  us 
that  the  hands  of  nature  are  our  servants  and  our 
ministers.  They  will  not  listen  to  nor  obey  a  single 
one  of  our  commands.  Neither  God  nor  Nature 
turns  aside  for  us.  We  must  go  with  them,  not  they 
with  us.  We  must  bring  ourselves  into  harmony 
with  them,  and  not  presume  that  they  will  conde- 
scend to  humor  our  whims  and  caprices.  It  is  a 
high  and  heavenly  and  an  enrapturing  harmony 
that  we  reach  in  becoming  a  part  of  the  harmony  of 
God  and  of  Nature.     We  come  into  fellowship  with 


48       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

the  noble  trees,  with  the  sparkling  waters,  with  the 
flowers,  the  music,  the  white  piles  of  clouds,  with 
the  flashing  borealis,  with  the  sparkling  stars.  It 
is  an  exhilarating  and  a  sublime  uplift  that  they 
give  us. 

Only  the  friendly  can  make  friends.  One  who 
would  have  Nature  friendly  and  serviceable  must 
extend  friendship  to  her.  He  must  approach  her 
with  kindness  and  respect,  or  she  will  have  nothing 
to  say  to  him.  But  let  him  seat  himself  in  that 
forest  and  listen,  let  him  learn  to  interpret  her  sign- 
language,  and  she  will  communicate  to  him  a  thou- 
sand pleasant  thoughts  and  tell  him  the  secret  of 
her  charms.  She  is  calm,  unobtrusive,  not  vain  of 
her  exquisite  beauty,  nor  haughty  in  her  grandeur, 
nor  disposed  to  monopolize  the  conversation.  She 
prepares  everywhere  charming  surprises,  distills 
fresh  and  original  flavors  and  perfumes,  exhibits 
her  touches  of  grace  and  harmony  in  art.  If  it  be 
warm  she  will  lift  your  hair  with  a  gentle  and 
refreshing  breeze.  If  the  wind  be  cold  she  will 
build  a  screen  of  trees  to  shelter  you.  She  will  offer 
you  a  delicious  bath,  pile  a  bed  of  fragrant  leaves 
or  mosses  for  you — is  always  gentle,  suggestive, 
and  kindly.  The  various  elements  of  Nature  are 
friendly  and  helpful  to  each  other.  The  sun  gives 
glory  to  the  sublime  pile  of  clouds,  the  clouds  give 
to  the  waters,  and  the  waters  give  to  us  and  to  the 
landscape.  Each  receives  and  passes  it  along. 
Each  receives  only  that  it  may  give;  and  if  we  do 


Nature  and  Culture  49 

not  give  what  we  receive,  we  are  not  in  harmony 
with  God  and  Nature.  We  are  aside  from  them, 
and  they  leave  us  out.  We  are  only  black  pools  of 
brine  which  Nature  sets  as  examples  of  sterility, 
bitterness,  and  desolation.  Looking  down  perpen- 
dicularly into  the  sea  from  a  ship's  side  we  find 
absolute  blackness;  no  gleam  of  the  sun  is  returned 
from  the  bottomless  abyss.  Nature  is  ceaselessly 
industrious.  The  cool  and  delightful  breeze  which 
blows  across  this  island  rises  and  falls,  lulls  and 
increases,  now  sinks  to  so  soft  a  movement  that  by 
watching  our  opportunity,  though  it  is  rare,  we  may 
obtain  photographs  of  the  foliage  and  of  the  watery 
mirror— and  now  rising  till  the  trees  sway  and  some 
fall — but  it  is  never  idle,  neither  night  nor  day.  The 
lake  is  never  listless.  When  it  is  not  rippling  in 
the  sun  or  in  the  moonlight,  or  making  music  on  its 
beaches,  it  is  reflecting  the  scenery  of  the  shores 
and  of  the  clouds.  It  never  ceases  its  contribu- 
tions either  to  activity  or  to  beauty.  Like  a  sweet 
face,  its  gifts,  in  smiles,  or  in  placidity,  or  in  tears, 
or  in  repose,  or  in  the  calmness  of  slumber,  keep 
the  heart  of  the  loving  beholder  ever  full.  A 
moment  ago  I  was  attracted  out  upon  the  balcony 
by  some  music  in  the  tree-tops.  There  were  four 
of  the  songsters,  each  of  differing  variety  and  song. 
I  sought  out  one  of  them  with  my  eyes  and  watched 
him.  No  sooner  was  his  song  ended  than  he 
changed  his  position  quickly,  then  flew  down  and 
busied  himself  here  and  there  for  a  little  time,  and 


50 


Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 


then  down  to  the  lake  and  took  a  fluttering  bath. 
There  was  not  a  lazy  bone  in  his  little  body.  One 
cannot  look  anywhere  without  seeing  this.  There 
are  titanic  shoulders  forever  lifting  higher  the 
mountains  and  the  continents  to  make  good  to 
them  the  losses  they  incur  from  the  busy  winds, 
frosts,  and  rains.  Everywhere  is  useful  and  benefi- 
cent activity. 

Nature's  exclusiveness  is  an  imitable  grace,  for 
it  is  but  a  higher  kind  of  purity.  All  day  long  the 
wind  was  blowing  and  the  water  on  the  beach  was 
clouded.  The  next  morning,  accustomed  as  I  am 
to  crystal  waters  here,  I  was  surprised  at  the  spark- 
ling purity  of  what  was  opaque  the  evening  before. 
"The  water  has  washed  its  hands  overnight,"  I 
said.  "Nay,"  said  another,  "but  the  water  has 
been  taking  a  bath."  It  had  reached  up  on  the 
beach  for  "scourine,"  and  with  this  it  had  purified 
itself  of  all  organic  particles,  animal  or  vegetable. 
The  birds  would  be  frowsy  as  a  hoydenish  girl  if 
they  did  not  prune  every  feather  and  lay  it  neatly 
and  smoothly  in  its  place.  They,  too,  take  up  the 
scourine,  then  the  bath;  and  then,  having  done 
their  washing,  hang  their  clothes  out  to  dry,  and 
then  do  their  ironing.  The  neatest  thing  I  ever 
saw  was  a  deer  in  his  new  coat  of  blue — not  a  par- 
ticle of  dust  or  of  soil,  from  the  tips  of  his  new  horns 
to  the  tips  of  his  sharp,  transparent  hoofs.  Every- 
thing in  Nature  is  daintily  exclusive.  She  abhors  a 
slouch.     It  is  esteemed  unpleasant  work,  this  clear- 


Natui'e  and  Culttire 


ing  away  of  dirt,  litter,  and  garbage;  but  Nature, 
like  a  spunky  woman,  goes  at  it  with  a  high  spirit 
and  cheerful  resolve.  Even  plants  will  not  take  up 
their  ammonia  and  phosphates  and  other  fertilizers 
in  the  rough.  The  roots  demand  clean  cooking,  as 
the  leaves  demand  pure  air.  The  love  of  Nature 
for  purity  is  exhibited  on  every  hand.  Sunshine 
will  kill  the  germs  of  smallpox  in  a  few  hours; 
pestilence  lurks  only  where  man  has  debarred  her. 
As  I  was  fishing  on  a  lake  I  noticed  an  animal  with 
white  bars  on  black,  moving  along  the  shore  toward 
me,  and  I  quietly  pulled  out  farther  and  went  around 
him.  I  knew  he  had  both  the  capacity  and  dispo- 
sition for  making  himself  disagreeable.  And  yet 
he  could  make  himself  unpleasant  only  in  a  shallow 
way.  The  discomfort  which  he  could  inflict  upon 
the  nostrils  would  be  a  small  matter  compared  with 
the  painful  repugnance  produced  by  a  human  moral 
counterpart.  I  suppose  if  that  really  handsome 
animal  had  noticed  that  I  went  out  of  my  way  to 
avoid  meeting  with  him,  he  might  have  said  I  was 
exclusive  and  proud;  and  that,  the  dear  knows,  he 
had  no  desire  for  my  company! 

Nature  utilizes  everything  in  her  wide  domains 
for  the  benefit  of  everything  else;  makes  all  helpful 
to  all,  and  each  to  each.  This  region  of  sand  is 
now  covered  with  a  bountiful  crop  of  whortleberries 
in  their  two  varieties  of  black  and  blue,  tens  of 
thousands  of  bushels  of  them,  which  freely  offer  a 
six  weeks'  festival  to  all  who  choose  to  partake  of 


52       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Way  side 

the  delicious  bounty.  For  richness  and  flavor  the 
whortleberry  is  second  only  to  the  strawberry,  but 
much  of  both  is  lost  in  transporting  and  marketing. 
So  nature  utilizes  this  sand  land  for  an  abundance 
of  this  nutritive  and  pleasant  food.  Not  far  away 
is  a  moss-covered  marsh,  which  one  would  think  was 
good  for  nothing  but  variety  in  the  landscape,  but 
here  is  the  home  of  the  cranberries,  much  milder 
and  finer  of  flavor  than  those  which  are  cultivated. 
The  marsh  deepens  into  a  shallow  lake,  the  home  of 
the  wild  rice,  which  again  has  a  flavor  more  pro- 
nounced and  pleasant  than  the  rice  of  commerce. 
The  curculio  made  war  on  the  wild  plum  and  drove 
it  from  the  hills,  but  the  plum  took  refuge  by  the 
streams,  where  it  could  cast  its  larva-infected  fruit 
into  the  water  and  drown  the  pests,  or  upon  water- 
soaked  soil,  where  they  could  not  live.  It  must 
have  been  a  hard  struggle  for  the  plum  to  win  foot- 
ing against  the  vigorous  swamp  alder,  but  it  suc- 
ceeded, and  in  its  season  offers  freely  to  all  comers 
its  scarlet  and  delicious  clusters.  There  is  a  cour- 
tesy and  a  mutual  helpfulness  between  those  vari- 
eties of  plants  whose  wants  are  so  different  that 
they  do  not  have  to  struggle  for  the  occupancy  of 
the  same  soil.  The  whortleberry  goes  with  the 
pines,  because  the  pines  preserve  the  snow  till  late 
in  the  spring,  and  the  snow  prevents  the  plants 
from  blooming  until  danger  of  frost  is  past.  The 
pines  serve  the  cranberry  also,  but  in  a  different 
way.     The   slowly  melting  snow  keeps  the  marsh 


Nature  ajid  Ctilture  53 

flooded  and  covers  the  young  plants  with  water  till 
frost  is  past.  Cultivated  cranberries  are  protected 
by  placing  a  dam  or  dike  so  as  to  imitate  nature. 
The  deciduous  or  hard  woods  protect  the  pines 
from  fire  by  covering  their  resinous,  fallen  foliage 
with  water-retaining  leaves.  The  friendship  be- 
tween animals  and  trees  and  plants  of  all  kinds  is 
well  known.  But  for  the  squirrels  and  other 
rodents  there  could  be  no  forests  of  hickory,  wal- 
nut, beech,  and  chestnut,  and  but  for  these  trees 
there  could  be  no  climbing  rodents.  The  trees 
furnish  warm,  sheltered  homes  for  the  squirrels,  in 
their  hollow  limbs,  and  the  squirrels  carry  off  their 
nuts  and  plant  them  nicely.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
mention  that  bees  and  other  winged  honey-seekers 
are  as  essential  to  the  lives  of  plants  and  trees  as 
the  latter  are  to  the  insects.  The  arrangements 
made  for  the  prosperity  of  the  birds  and  animals 
are  equally  marked.  If  the  hibernating  animals 
were  compelled  to  eat  in  winter  they  would  starve 
to  death,  but  they  lay  by  enough  carbon  in  fat  to 
last  them  over.  They  are  not  torpid,  only  sleepy. 
The  bear  will  waken  up  enough  to  close  a  chink  if 
there  be  too  much  air,  or  to  open  one  if  there  be 
not  enough.  When  they  wake  in  the  spring  they 
find  a  breakfast  of  cranberries  and  wintergreen 
berries  ready,  which  are  as  fresh  and  fine  when  the 
blanket  of  snow  is  withdrawn  in  the  spring  as  they 
were  when  it  covered  them  in  November.  Country 
boys  know  how  it  is  with  apples  hidden  in  the  long 


54       Musmgs  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

grass  under  the  trees,  when  the  snow  goes  off.  A 
cranberry  marsh  spreads  a  feast  of  mellowed  and 
sweetened  fruit,  the  edge  of  its  acid  gone,  its 
nutritious  qualities  perfected,  its  flavor  delightful, 
for  all  the  hungry  sleepers  and  for  the  oncoming 
fluttering  clouds  of  birds,  while  yet  the  trees  are 
bare,  and  not  a  bud  has  broken  in  upon  the  winter's 
desolation. 

Take  a  company  of  trees  living  socially  together 
in  a  forest  and  notice  how  courteously  they  respect 
each  other's  tastes,  rights,  and  interests.  Here  is 
a  pine.  He  sends  his  tap-roots  straight  down,  ten 
feet  or  more,  to  make  sure  of  a  supply  of  water  in 
all  seasons,  and  he  never  tries  to  monopolize  the 
sunlight  and  the  air,  but  runs  up  straight,  a  hun- 
dred feet  or  more,  and  then  throws  out  a  small 
plumy  top.  He  can  afford  to  do  this  because  he 
has  a  whole  year  of  foliage  and  sunlight,  while  the 
birch  and  the  maple  have  but  six  months. 

Then  he  takes  sparingly  of  the  kind  of  food 
necessary  for  his  neighbors,  just  a  little  starch  for 
his  seeds.  Then  he  mulches  the  ground  around  his 
neighbors'  roots  with  his  undecaying  foliage,  so 
that  they  may  have  plenty  of  moisture.  The  maple 
and  the  birch  must  have  richer  food  than  the  pine, 
and  more  of  it.  They  each  have  a  sweet  tooth  for 
sugar.  Therefore  their  roots  seek  the  richer  soil 
of  the  surface,  and  they  each  want  all  the  sunlight 
they  can  get  during  the  short  summer.  When 
one   of   them   has  selected  a  plat  of   ground,  the 


Nature  and  Culture  55 

other  does  not  encroach.  He  goes  off  far  enough 
so  that  there  will  be  plenty  for  both,  but  either  of 
them  will  grow  up  between  the  big  wind-roots  of  a 
pine. 

Now  go  to  the  lake  shore.  Out  there  in  deep 
water  are  the  lilies,  next,  shoreward,  comes  a  line 
of  wild  rice,  next  a  line  of  rushes,  next  a  line  of 
wire-grass,  and  last  a  line  of  blue-joint.  All  these 
lines  surround  the  whole  lake.  None  are  trespass- 
ers on  the  territory  of  the  others.  But  you  may 
reply  that  none  of  these  kinds  could  live  in  the 
place  occupied  by  the  others,  so  that  invasion  would 
be  impossible;  that  the  lily  must  have  its  roots 
below  the  reach  of  the  ice,  or  the  ice  would  pull 
them  out,  uproot  them ;  that  the  ice  cannot  get  hold 
of  the  rice  roots,  so  that  they  are  at  liberty  to 
occupy  the  rich,  mucky  soil  in  shallow  water;  that 
the  wire-grass  likes  to  have  its  feet  in  the  water, 
and  the  blue-joint  does  not,  and  so  on.  What  is 
this  but  the  self-adaptation  of  the  plant  to  its  con- 
ditions? What  is  it  but  an  agreement  among 
themselves  to  divide  fair,  the  agreement  enforced 
afterward  by  constitution  and  habit?  One  man  is 
a  blacksmith,  another  a  tailor.  They  divide  fairly. 
Because  the  one  cannot  invade  the  territory  of  the 
other  after  they  have  learned  their  trades  is  not 
saying  that  there  was  not  a  fair  division  when  they 
began. 

Out  there  in  the  lake  is  a  loon  or  two,  and  a 
flock  of  ducks.     The  loon  lives  on  fish  exclusively, 


56       Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

which  he  runs  down  and  captures  in  a  fair  foot-race, 
so  to  speak,  under  water.  The  duck  lets  the  loon's 
fish  alone,  and  eats  first  the  lily  seeds,  then  the  wild 
rice,  and  last  the  rush-corn. 

Now  comes  the  deer  from  the  land.  He  is  some- 
thing of  a  poacher  on  the  duck's  preserves,  but 
there  is  plenty  for  all.  And  yet  his  principal  living 
is  the  acorns  and  the  browse.  He  only  tops  off 
with  rush-corn,  rice,  and  a  lily  root. 

Now  comes  the  fox,  with  the  badger  and  some 
more  of  them.  He  wants  nothing  that  the  other 
members  of  the  society  want.  He  will  take  turtle 
eggs — and  alas,  here  is  a  discord  in  my  symphony! — 
duck  eggs,  and  young  ducklings,  too,  I  must  leave 
him  out! 

Now  come  the  beaver  and  the  porcupine.  They 
want  nothing  that  any  of  the  others  like.  All  they 
ask  is  plenty  of  birch  leaves  and  popple  bark. 

As  for  Brother  Otter,  he  meddles  with  nobody's 
kitchen,  not  even  with  the  loon's,  though  his  exclu- 
sive diet  is  fish.  But  he  eats  no  fish  that  is  the 
right  size  for  the  loon.  He  goes  for  from  two  to 
ten  pounders. 

Brother  Bear  likes  venison,  but  he  cannot  have 
any,  excepting  very  rarely.  He  fattens  up  on  ber- 
ries and  frog-legs  and  speckled  trout,  though  the 
latter  are  a  luxury.  He  has  to  stand  in  the  rocky  run- 
ways and  toss  them  out  when  they  run  over  his  paws. 

Of  course  there  are  some  abominably  mean 
people  in  this  society,  just  to  set  the  social  virtues 


Nature  and  Culture  57 


in  a  good  contrast.  There  is  the  wolf.  Everybody 
hates  him.  He  is  an  outlaw  and  a  robber,  and  they 
all  wish  he  were  dead.  The  fox,  whom  we  had  to 
rule  out  of  our  good  society,  is  a  cousin  of  the  wolf, 
and  that  was  the  reason.  He  does  not  belong  to  a 
respectable  family.  Mr.  Fox  is  one  of  the  four 
hundred.  He  pretends  that  his  family  is  exclusive, 
but  it  is  just  the  other  way. 

All  animals  which  are  not  natural  enemies  help 
each  other.  I  will  not  mention  well-known  exam- 
ples, but  give  a  new  one.  I  noticed  a  deer  feeding 
on  the  margin  of  a  lake,  and  a  loon  floating  out  on 
it.  I  approached  so  that  I  could  not  be  seen  or 
scented  by  the  deer,  but  could  be  seen  by  the  loon, 
who  was  guarding  his  mate,  which  was  hatching  her 
eggs  on  the  margin.  He  set  up  a  wild  clamor. 
The  deer  was  at  once  on  the  alert,  ran  up  and  down 
the  sand  to  discover  the  danger,  then  dashed  up 
hill,  sounding  his  alarm. 

All  these  animals  enjoy  perfect  health.  There 
are  no  measles,  smallpox,  cholera,  diphtheria,  or 
pulmonary  diseases  among  them.  When  that  tre- 
mendous thunder-storm  and  roaring  rain  was  going 
on  the  other  night,  we  thought  of  them.  A  crash 
of  lightning  close  by  must  be  startling  to  them,  but 
the  rain  does  them  no  injury.  They  have  all  the 
conditions  of  health.  They  are  scrupulously  clean 
in  person.  From  the  tip  of  his  horns  to  the  edge 
of  his  sharp  hoof  the  stag  is  as  pure  as  the  most 
scrupulous  lady. 


58       Musings  by  Camp-Fh^e  and  Wayside 

They  all  take  their  baths  regularly.  They  have 
untainted  air,  uncontaminated  water,  the  alchemy 
of  the  sun,  and  the  electric  currents  of  the  earth. 
Nobody  ever  saw  a  wild  animal  in  the  condition  of 
an  illy  groomed  cow  or  horse.  Their  food  is  im- 
mediately fresh,  and  they  take  food  and  exercise  in 
proper  proportions.  Precisely  these  are  the  con- 
ditions of  human  health.  But  we  live  artificial  and 
unnatural,  and  therefore  unhappy,  lives,  and  we  are 
bond-slaves  to  our  unnatural  and  unwholesome  cus- 
toms, wants,  and  ambitions.  These  fetters  pinch 
and  gall  us  at  every  point,  from  a  corned  toe  to  a 
sleepless  brain.  To  write  a  catalogue  of  them 
would  require  pages.  Take  a  household  occupying 
a  handsome  home.  The  husband  is  a  business 
man.  He  must  win  wealth  or  be  regarded  by  his 
fellows  as  of  a  poor  order  of  mind.  He  must  dis- 
play his  wealth  by  an  elaborate  and  complicated 
style  of  living,  in  which  he  meets  one  and  all  of  the 
petty  annoyances,  restraints,  and  disappointments 
and  frustrations  which  are  as  pertinacious  and 
venomous  as  mosquitoes  in  a  swamp.  In  business 
he  meets  others  like  them,  to  which  is  added  a 
burden  of  anxious  cares  which  never  lifts,  day  nor 
night.  Do  you  call  this  happiness?  It  is  terrestrial 
hell,  all  the  way  through.  And  his  wife — the  most 
pitiable  creature  alive.  There  is  not  a  day  in  which 
she  is  not  wrought  into  a  passion  by  the  perversity, 
meanness,  or  senselessness  of  servants,  and  by  the 
total  depravity  of  all  inanimate  things  around  her. 


Nature  and  Culture 


59 


Has  she  a  piece  of  cherished  porcelain,  it  will  be 
smashed;  a  lace,  it  will  be  scorched;  and  her  rivals 
know  right  well  how  to  thrust  a  wasp's  sting  into 
her  pride.  She  goes  to  pieces,  and  the  doctors, 
who  in  former  times  would  have  bled  her,  now  bleed 
her  husband  for  her  benefit.  Husband  and  wife 
ought  to  be  in  such  physical  health  that  they  would 
be  ever  as  ready  for  the  occasion  of  exuberant 
spirits  as  a  fine  bell  is  to  give  forth  its  music. 

But  is  there  any  way  out  of  this  complicated 
and  unnatural  to  a  natural  and  healthful  way  of 
living?  Can  we  return  to  the  conditions  which 
make  our  forest  friends  so  hearty  and  hardy?  We 
have  found  it  for  part  of  the  year  in  these  cabins 
and  by  this  camp-fire.  But  there  is  an  easier 
way  out  of  it  for  young  people  starting  in  life.  Let 
them  first  abandon  the  prevailing  philosophy  and 
construct  a  simpler  one.  Let  them  resolve  to  be 
satisfied  with  such  distinction  and  admiration  as 
they  can  win  by  conduct  and  character,  and  make 
no  effort  to  win  it  by  equipage  or  any  kind  of  dis- 
play. What  others  spend  for  show  let  them  spend 
in  hospitality,  benevolence,  and  outings.  If  the 
husband  is  employed  in  the  city  there  is  no  need  of 
the  family  living  there.  For  a  few  hundred  dollars 
he  can  purchase  as  many  acres  near  the  railway — a 
half-mile  away  is  near  enough.  Then  build  a  neat 
but  modest  cottage,  not  to  cost  over  a  couple  of 
thousand  dollars.  Gratify  the  love  of  beauty  out- 
side of  the  house  with  trees  and  flowers,  and  inside, 


6o       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

leave  that  to  the  womanly  skill  and  taste  of  the 
wife.  Here  is  outdoor  work  for  all  odd  hours,  of 
the  most  delightful  and  healthful  kind;  every  stroke 
of  it  is  capital  invested  in  beauty  or  beautified  util- 
ity. In  a  few  years  the  cottage  will  be  a  gem  on 
which  the  pleased  eye  of  the  passer-by  will  rest. 
This  is  exercise  for  body  and  rest  for  the  mind. 
Here  are  the  conditions  of  health  and  vigor  for 
both. 

I  console  myself  in  my  sympathy  for  these  clean 
and  healthy,  and  according  to  their  light,  right- 
doing  wild  animals,  by  looking  up  at  the  stars. 
The  Creator  has  made  so  many  suns  that  are  now 
active,  to  say  nothing  of  those  which  have  died, 
that  there  must  be  worlds  adapted  to  animal  life, 
which  in  numbers  are  quite  beyond  the  limits  of 
our  computation.  In  many,  perhaps  most  of  those 
worlds,  the  intellectual  king-race  is  not  a  race  of 
carnivorous  animals,  like  man.  Such  a  race  would 
not  be  the  enemies  but  the  friends  of  the  peaceful, 
inferior  tribes.  What  a  delightful  time  the  camp- 
fire  muser  and  his  wife  in  the  earth-world  of  Alpha 
Cassiopeia  must  have!  The  doe  brings  her  sweet 
and  innocent  fawns,  and  leaves  them  under  the 
protection  of  Crusoe's  rifle.  The  squirrel  comes 
down  the  tree  with  her  little  ones,  and  lays  them  in 
the  lap  of  Mrs.  Crusoe,  for  her  to  fondle  and 
admire.  Wherever  men  dwell  the  singing-birds 
come  for  protection  from  the  hawk.  In  that  world 
man  is  the  only  granivorous  and  frugivorous  animal 


Nature  and  Culture  6i 

who  does  not  fear  the  enemies  of  peaceful  tribes 
like  himself,  but  who,  on  the  contrary,  delights  in 
offering  them  combat.  He  is  the  universal  knight- 
errant,  the  defender  of  the  innocent  and  the  defense- 
less. Crusoe  of  Alpha  Cassiopeia!  I  am  gazing 
up  at  the  sun  which  bathes  your  enchanted  and 
solitary  island,  and  I  am  fully  resolved  to  pay  you 
a  visit  as  soon  as  I  receive  my  spiritual  body.  I 
think  you  will  like  me,  as  I  know  I  shall  love  you. 
You  will  find  me  a  good  shot  at  wolf,  and  an  expert 
fisherman  for  sharks  and  devil-fish,  and  a  good, 
hearty  hater  of  all  persecutors  of  the  innocent.  We 
will  gather  blueberries  and  wild  rice  together. 
Ah!  your  sun  is  dipping  behind  our  pines.  Good 
night,  old  fellow!     Auf  wiedersehen! 


£©U)Sing  ti^e  fourti^ 


Nature's  Music,  Art,  and  Industry 


NATURE  demands  silence  in  the  presence 
of  beauty.  She  gave  these  solitary  lakes 
their  burnished  sheen,  their  crystal  depths, 
framed  them  in  forests,  girdled  them  with  vines 
and  flowers,  besprinkled  them  with  lilies,  caused 
them  to  duplicate  their  brilliant  autumnal  shores, 
to  reflect  the  passing  cloud,  and  in  many  a  silent 
and  solitary  night  cast  bridges  across  them  of 
shimmering  moonbeams.  And  this  display  of 
natural  beauty,  to  which  no  description  could 
do  justice,  has  unfailingly  been  repeated  day  and 
night  for  many  centuries,  unseen  by  man,  unap- 
preciated, unknown.  Wherever  natural  beauty  is, 
there  is  silence  also.  And  this  is  a  law.  A  noisy 
person  in  the  presence  of  a  great  painting  would  be 
invited  by  the  guard  to  leave  the  room;  or  if  in  the 
midst  of  the  rendering  of  a  fine  piece  of  music, 
would  be  regarded  by  all  present  as  possessing 
neither  decency  nor  sense.  Even  the  rivulets,  clear 
and  cold,  seem  to  steal  their  way  into  such  a  scene 
cautious  as  the  foot  of  a  hunter.  Back  in  the  hills 
they  plash  and  leap  under  their  veils  of  overhanging 
foliage.  But  as  they  approach  this  gem  of  Nature's 
art  they  leave  their  merriment  behind.  The  boom 
of  a  falling  tree  comes  over  the  wooded  ridge,  and 
62 


Nature  s  Music,  Art,  and  Industry      63 

the  guide  pricks  up  his  ears  and  says,  "The  beavers 
are  at  work."  So  these  carpenters  of  the  wilder- 
ness ply  their  vocation  with  no  sound  of  ax  or  saw. 
A  crow  made  his  appearance  and  appeared  ambitious 
of  the  distinction  of  being  the  noisiest  crow  that 
ever  cawed.  There  was  not  a  note  of  which  his 
throat  was  capable  on  which  he  did  not  perform  all 
the  variations;  then  with  a  petulant  and  querulous 
complaint  he  rose  from  the  dead  pine  and  flew  away 
across  the  hills.  But  even  the  crow  only  made  the 
silence  more  silent,  as  his  black  plumage  increased 
the  whiteness  of  the  gray  pine  on  which  he  was 
perched. 

When,  however.  Nature  would  exhibit  that  form 
of  beauty  called  grandeur,  she  does  not  always 
regard  it  inappropriate  to  call  for  noble  music.  We 
admire  the  ocean,  but  only  where  it  breaks  upon 
the  shore,  and  where,  with  a  massive  rush,  the 
waves  leap  at  and  partly  climb  the  cliffs,  and  perse- 
veringly  return  after  each  rebuff  to  try  again.  All 
this  would  not  be  perfect  art  in  silence;  or  without 
the  boom  of  the  smiting  waters  and  the  liquid  roar 
of  a  billion  of  bursting  bubbles. 

The  love  of  beauty  will  not  give  us  the  pleasure 
of  which  we  are  capable  without  close  and  habitual 
attention.  We  are  walking  along  the  paths  of  a 
very  beautiful  world.  It  is  a  perpetual  panorama, 
passing  by  us  every  day;  and  we  shall  add  greatly 
to  the  happiness  of  life,  and  to  the  elevation  and 
purification  of  all   our  faculties,  if  we  acquire  the 


64       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

habit  of  looking  for  its  beauties.  We  do  not  always 
catch  them  at  a  glance.  We  must  individualize  a 
scene  and  study  it  as  we  do  a  picture.  Below  my 
bedroom  window,  at  home,  stand  some  cut-leaf 
birches,  some  wild  cherries,  and  a  variety  of  shrubs. 
Beyond  are  tall  elms  and  popples.  One  would  say 
at  a  glance  that  they  are  pretty.  But  as  they  come 
so  often  into  view,  morning  and  evening,  I  have 
become  familiar  with  them,  and  they  have  had  time 
to  make  their  impression  on  me,  so  that  I  now  see 
that  they  are  not  only  pretty,  they  are  beautiful, 
full  of  beauty  which  reveals  itself  in  many  ways. 
They  nearly  always  have  something  new  to  exhibit, 
the  dew  in  the  morning,  the  varying  colors  of  the 
evening,  the  gentle  fluttering,  the  periods  of  quiet. 

I  had  noticed  before  the  wild  excitement  of  the 
trees  in  a  violent  wind  storm — how  they  frown  at 
its  approach  and  become  frightened  when  it  strikes, 
swaying  and  dashing  hither  and  yon  as  if  they  would 
escape.  Those  elms,  one  evening  late,  in  a  sudden 
wind,  showed  agitation  and  alarm  in  their  conflict 
with  a  foe  which  too  often  lays  the  forest  low. 

There  are  beauties  in  nature  which  are  so  strik- 
ing that  we  see  them  at  a  glance.  There  are  others 
which  come  out  coyly,  and  with  a  kind  of  surprise. 
If  we  do  not  recognize  them  immediately  we  shall 
not  find  them  by  search.  They  are  modest  and 
shrink  from  a  stare.  They  come  upon  us  like  an 
unexpected  party  of  friends  when  one  is  out  for  a 
walk,  or  like  a  burst  of  thrush-song  from  a  leafy 


Nature  s  Music,  Art,  mid  Industry     65 

tree.  One  of  the  pleasures  they  give  is  that  of 
unexpectedness.  All  that  is  asked  of  us  is,  that  we 
shall  be  prepared  for  them  with  eyes  quick  to  recog- 
nize and  sensibilities  to  appreciate.  This  requires 
training  and  exercise,  and  where  one  can  have  it, 
instruction.  It  is  not  enough  to  be  told  that  a 
natural  spectacle  is  beautiful;  it  is  of  advantage  to 
have  the  particular  shade  or  phase  of  beauty  pointed 
out.  The  eye  must  be  cultivated  for  form  and 
color  as  the  ear  is  for  music.  Thus  we  may  walk 
all  our  lives  along  the  aisles  of  galleries  hung  with 
scenes  far  beyond  the  powers  of  the  great  masters. 

And  indeed,  it  is  the  same  in  religion  as  in  art, 
the  same  in  the  spiritual  as  in  the  natural.  "They 
have  eyes  but  they  see  not,  ears  but  they  hear  not." 
To  appreciate  spiritual  or  moral  beauty  one  must 
strengthen  the  faculty  by  exercise.  As  in  nature 
there  are  beauties  which  arrest  the  attention  at  a 
glance,  so  there  are  pure,  noble,  and  generous  acts 
which  do;  but  there  are  finer,  more  delicate,  more 
exquisite  moral  and  spiritual  beauties,  a  full  appreci- 
ation of  which  is  not  always  given.  If  we  were  to 
analyze  the  culture  of  the  best  society,  the  graces 
which  make  it  charming,  we  would  find  that  they 
are  either  genuine  or  simulated  spiritual  beauty. 
Beauty  is  from  God.  We  may  paint  a  flower,  but 
it  will  only  be  attractive  in  the  degree  that  it  is  true 
to  the  model  which  God  made. 

All  of  nature  is  not  art.  The  ocean  itself  is  so 
drearily  monotonous  that  the  voyager  counts  the 


66       Musings  by  Ca^np-Fire  and  Wayside 

miles  and  the  hours  till  his  sight  shall  be  rid  of  it. 
There  is  nothing  in  a  plain  of  snow  but  its  cold  and 
its  winds.  A  flood  of  light  forever  dazzles  the  hot 
sands  of  Sahara;  and  yet  it  is  a  desolation  that 
overwhelms  and  prostrates  the  soul.  There  must 
be  shadows  before  that  which  is  light  can  be  light. 

Truth  is  beauty,  and  beauty  is  truth.  They  are 
introconvertible  forms  of  moral  energy,  as  are  elec- 
tricity and  light.  They  walk  hand  in  hand  among 
the  stars,  and  in  the  fields,  and  in  all  the  realms  of 
being.  They  are  but  different  expressions  of  the 
same  thought.  Falsehood,  however  painted,  is 
ugly,  and  ugliness  is  false.  No  man  or  woman  has 
an  ugly  face  who  has  a  loving  and  faithful  heart. 
The  features  may  be  plain  and  irregular,  and  the 
complexion  not  clear,  and  yet  the  person  may  pos- 
sess the  highest  elements  of  beauty,  and  express 
them.  An  angry  or  malicious  face  is  not  comely; 
a  kindly  beaming  and  gracious  face  always  is — it  is 
in  harmony  with  us  and  with  its  surroundings,  and 
therefore  it  satisfies  the  desire  for  the  beautiful.  It 
is  one  of  the  experiences  which  people  remark,  that 
a  face  which  at  first  view  appears  to  be  homely,  may 
on  acquaintance  lose  all  those  lines,  and  become  in 
the  highest  degree  attractive  and  charming. 

Nature  understands  well  how  to  set  off  her  beau- 
ties with  foils  of  ugliness,  and  when  she  sets  about 
creating  an  ugly  thing  she  leaves  no  room  for  com- 
petition. On  a  projecting  spike  of  a  pine  above  me 
sits  a  squirrel,  and  at  the  root  of  the  same  squats  a 


Nature  s  Music,  Art,  and  Industry     67 

toad,  and  yet  the  toad  is  a  beauty  compared  with 
some  of  the  reptilian  and  aquatic  forms.  Leaning 
over  the  guards  of  a  sub-arctic  ship,  I  saw  leaping 
salmon  showing  their  yellow  sides,  and  glossy  fur- 
seals  making  their  curving  leaps  in  the  air,  while  a 
cold,  clammy,  horrible  devil-fish  rose  to  the  surface 
near  the  ship's  side. 

Saint  John  had  a  poet's  idea  of  distances  and 
perspectives.  His  glassy  sea  was  wide.  He  had 
to  listen  for  the  voices.  His  strong  angels  would 
not  have  flown  had  the  space  they  traversed  been 
narrow.  His  river  diminished  in  its  vista  of  ever- 
blooming  and  ever-fruiting  trees,  and  reappeared 
far  away,  its  silver  toned  by  the  blue.  The  notes  of 
the  harp  were  borne  to  him  on  waves  of  voices,  so 
softened  that  he  compared  the  music  to  the  sound 
of  breakers  on  a  distant  shore.  The  near-by  crash 
startles  and  shocks;  far  away,  it  soothes.  A  near-by 
thunder-crash  is  not  thunder.  It  is  the  sharp 
"crack"  of  a  rifle  multiplied  a  hundred  times; 
and  the  sound  is  gone  as  instantly.  To  hear  the 
thunder  we  must  wait  for  the  return  of  the  echoes. 
If  the  situation  be  favorable,  we  shall  learn  into 
what  music  Nature  will  convert  that  deafening  and 
shocking  explosion.  From  side  to  side  of  the 
ravine  or  valley,  from  cloud  to  cloud,  and  from 
cloud  to  forest,  it  strikes  the  keys  of  continually 
diminishing  and  softening  notes,  till  at  last  it  is  no 
more  than  the  sough  of  a  gentle  breeze  in  the  top 
of  a  pine. 


68       Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

One  must  be  at  a  distance  from  the  band  before 
he  can  hear  the  music.  The  voice  of  a  friend, 
properly  modulated  and  near,  is  pleasant;  but  let 
that  friend  call  from  a  distance,  and  it  gathers  a 
charm  as  it  comes.  It  is  kindlier,  softer,  and  it 
may  be  sweeter.  It  implies  interest,  regard,  and  a 
welcome.  It  is  the  language  of  fellowship,  and 
friendship  spoken  in  music.  In  this  pleasure  we 
share  with  all  our  fellow-occupants  of  the  earth. 
Observe  any  bird  or  quadruped  when  a  sound  from 
a  strange  source  comes  to  him.  He  does  not  hear 
it.  But  let  a  call  come  from  a  mate  or  a  rival  or  a 
fledgling,  and  he  is  at  once  all  attention.  We  think 
bird  song  is  sweet,  but  to  other  birds  of  the  same 
species  it  is  the  most  welcome  experience  in  their 
little  lives.  A  woman's  song  in  a  parlor  is  a  per- 
formance; in  the  woods  it  is  an  inspiration.  The 
most  inspiring  strains  heard  on  the  earth  were  two — 
when  the  morning  stars  sang  the  hymn  of  creation, 
and  when  the  angels  sang  the  hymn  of  redemption. 
The  voice  of  a  singing  congregation  may  be  fine, 
and  even  noble,  within  the  walls  and  roof  of  the 
church,  but  let  it  float  out  of  the  open  summer  win- 
dows, across  gardens  and  fields,  and  among  the 
trees,  and  it  becomes  sublime.  It  brings  God  very 
near  to  us.  Life  is  not  noisy.  It  has  its  voices  in 
infinite  variety,  but  they  are  gentle.  The  soughing 
of  the  pines,  the  rustle  of  the  growing  corn,  the 
mooing  of  the  cows,  even  the  strong  wind  making 
flutes  of  the  eaves,  are  not  noisy.     They  do  not  jar 


Nature  s  Mtistc,  Art,  and  Industry     69 

or  disturb,  nor  grate  upon  the  nerves.  It  is  not 
work  or  weariness  that  breaks  down  and  prostrates, 
it  is  noise,  the  assaults  of  discordance;  continued 
and  unrelieved  it  kills.  The  physician  must  guard 
his  patient  from  it  if  he  would  save  his  life. 
Women,  with  their  more  delicate  sensibilities,  fur- 
nish the  most  victims.  Their  own  unrestrained 
children  may  bring  them  to  an  early  grave,  or  if 
they  survive,  so  toughen  and  harden  their  fine  fiber 
as  to  make  them  termagants.  Thunder  will  sour 
sweet  cream.  The  filing  of  a  saw  tends  to  make  a 
demoniac.  We  submit  to  the  storm  of  noises  in  a 
city  because  we  cannot  help  ourselves,  as  we  do 
when  caught  out  in  a  storm  of  rain  or  hail,  but 
when  we  retire  it  is  as  if  the  sun  were  shining  plac- 
idly once  more. 

Purity  is  Nature's  most  marked  characteristic. 
She  is  a  tidy  housekeeper  with  an  antipathy  for  dirt. 
She  is  not  afraid  to  wash  her  ceilings  with  rains  and 
her  carpets  with  dews,  for  her  colors  do  not  run. 
She  would  be  regarded  as  extravagant  were  she  not 
so  rich,  for  she  refits  her  house  from  dome  to  cellar 
at  least  three  times  each  year,  and  she  does  it  so 
quietly  that  nobody  tries  to  get  away.  She  likes 
to  begin  with  tender  pea-greens,  changes  to  dark 
or  olive  greens,  clears  out  everything,  and  breaks 
out  in  gorgeous  colors.  The  festivity  over,  she 
takes  to  white  and  crystal.  Nature,  in  special 
cases,  makes  much  litter  in  her  work,  but  she  always 
sweeps  it  away  when  her  task  is  accomplished.     If 


70       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

she  is  up  to  her  elbows  in  suds  at  times,  it  is  that 
she  may  hang  out  pure  linens.  If  she  raise  a  dust 
in  water  or  air,  it  is  only  that  she  may  lay  it  down  in 
some  more  useful  form  and  place.  From  what  I 
had  read  of  the  Alpine  streams  leaping  down  from 
the  snow-fields,  I  supposed  them  to  be  clear  as 
crystal  and  cold  as  ice.  But  the  Reuss  was  mud- 
dier than  the  Missouri  at  its  muddiest,  and  its  con- 
fluents were  of  the  same  color.  Then  I  expected 
to  see  the  same  in  the  Alaskan  mountain  streams, 
but  they  were  as  pure  as  a  spring,  and  delicious  for 
drinking.  If  one  would  look  farther  along  in  the 
Alps  he  would  find  the  vale  of  Chamouni  or  Lake 
Leman,  These  emerge,  ever  new,  from  her  dusty 
and  slushy  factories,  in  which  she  works  with  a 
passion  derived  from  the  sun,  and  with  an  eagerness 
and  a  rush.  In  Alaska  she  has  about  finished  up 
her  volcanic  and  glacial  preparations,  and  is  sitting 
down  in  the  cool  for  a  rest.  Her  streams  there  are 
bedded  in  porphyry  and  ice.  If  one  should  ask  her, 
in  Alaska,  "How  is  business?"  she  would  answer, 
"Rather  quiet — not  much  doing." 

The  mud  in  the  Alpine  streams  comes  of  heat 
and  obstruction,  of  melted  snow-water  in  conflict 
with  stubborn  old  rocks.  It  is  a  battle-ground 
between  progress  and  conservatism.  The  former 
wishes  to  arrive  at  Chamouni  or  Leman.  The  latter 
wishes  to  have  things  remain  as  they  are  in  undi- 
gested chunks  of  barren  basalt  and  somber  gneiss. 


a^uistng  tlfte  mt^ 


The  Tragical  in  Nature 


WE  are  all  superstitious,  and  it  is  a  fact  not 
to  be  ashamed  of.  Superstition  is  an 
adumbration  of  religion  —  though  not 
infrequently  the  shadow  falls  the  other  way.  It  is 
not  the  fact  of  superstition,  but  its  character,  which 
may  be  the  source  of  terror  and  misery.  It  is  when 
we  fill  the  darkness  and  the  unknown  with  malevo- 
lence, cruelty,  hate,  selfishness,  and  deify  other 
ferocious  passions,  that  we  produce  a  baleful  super- 
stition. Superstition  came  into  being  in  the  woods, 
and  there,  in  her  original  amiability,  she  is  still 
dwelling.  What  starts  and  thrills  along  the  nerves 
she  sends  by  her  weird  sounds  and  her  ghostly 
shapes!  What  omens  there  are  in  yonder  black 
ravine,  into  which  sifts  just  enough  of  the  rays  of 
the  full  moon  to  set  off  the  darkness !  If  you  should 
have  to  cross  it  alone  you  would  descend  all  ready 
and  expectant  of  a  fright;  but  the  innocent  and 
honest  brook,  dancing  and  laughing  along  like  a 
pure  little  child,  makes  you  smile  at  your  fears. 

Tragical  superstitions  are  inherited  memories  of 

real  tragedies.      For  example,  fear  of  the  darkness 

is  an  inherited  memory  of  the  time  when  rapacious 

beasts  were  abroad  at  night,  and  men  were  in  dan- 

71 


72       Mtisings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

ger  of  being  torn  by  them.  Fear  of  a  graveyard  at 
night  is  an  inherited  memory  of  the  belief  that  the 
shades  of  the  dead  were  liable  to  be  malevolent  and 
dangerous.  Thus  all  tragical  superstitions  are 
traceable  to  the  tragical  in  human  experience,  and 
they  so  permeate  the  human  organism  that  no 
degree  of  enlightenment  will  wholly  remove  them. 
The  higher  animals  are  superstitious,  notably  the 
horse  and  the  dog.  If  the  impressions  made  upon 
the  mind  of  man  by  the  tragical  in  nature  are  not 
the  original  source  of  what  are  called  the  "religious 
instincts,"  they  are  invariably  an  integral  part  of 
them.  No  religion  has  ever  existed  which  did  not 
make  these  superstitions  the  exclusive  source  of  its 
power.  No  system  of  religion,  if  we  except  Chris- 
tianity in  its  higher  attainments,  could  exist  for  a 
day  without  them. 

There  are  what  we  may  call  the  benign  or  harm- 
less superstitions,  which  add  to  the  picturesqueness 
and  pleasure  of  life.  These  usually  come  under  the 
classification  of  folk-lore,  and  are  as  well  established 
in  the  minds  of  the  peasantry  as  any  of  their  more 
serious  beliefs.  One  would  suppose  that  the  stories 
of  rabbit  lore  among  the  Southern  negroes  were  to 
them  only  amusing  fables.  Not  so.  They  believe 
as  fully  in  the  wisdom  and  the  magical  powers  of 
the  rabbit  as  they  do  in  anything.  These  harmless 
superstitions  are  in  endless  variety  in  all  parts  of 
the  world,  and  relate  to  everything  in  life.  Another 
class  consists  of  the  fictions  and  fancies  of  the  poets 


The  Tragical  in  Nature  ji) 

taken  as  literal  facts.  The  Greeks  afforded  the 
finest  example  of  artistic  superstition  built  up  into 
a  racial  religion. 

In  accordance  with  the  universal  rule  that  the 
worst  is  always  proximate  to  the  best,  the  tragical 
superstitions  interwoven  with  Christianity  are  the 
most  ferocious,  cruel,  and  deadly  of  any  that  ever 
found  access  to  the  mind  of  man.  It  might  be  diffi- 
cult to  account  for  this  were  it  not  that  Christianity 
early  fell  under  the  control  of  an  eccfesiastical 
organization,  which,  dealing  with  a  universal  mass 
of  ignorance,  was  constantly  led  to  increase  its 
superstitious  terrors,  and  to  burn  them  into  the 
minds  of  the  masses  by  exhibition  of  cruelties  as 
dreadful  as  they  could  devise.  It  was  to  the  inter- 
est of  this  organization  to  keep  the  fires  about  the 
stake  well  ablaze,  and  not  finding  a  sufficient  num- 
ber of  "heretics"  to  meet  the  requirements,  found 
an  inexhaustible  supply  in  "witches."  This  may 
be  regarded  by  the  reader  as  outside  of  the  subject 
of  the  "Tragical  in  Nature,"  and  yet  it  found  its 
power  in  the  natural  superstitions  which  grew  out 
of  the  tragical  experiences  of  mankind. 

As  civilized  society  became  more  settled  and 
secure,  the  tendency  naturally  was  for  superstition 
in  its  more  savage  manifestations  to  pass  away ;  and 
such  was  the  effect.  But  priestcraft,  seeing  its 
powers  departing,  seemed  desperately  bent  upon 
increasing  the  terrors  of  the  unknown,  and  as  in 
the  example  of  Jonathan  Edwards  and  his  school, 


74       MtLsings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

ran  to  such  excesses  of  doctrinal  savagery  as  to 
break  the  back  of  credulity,  and  thus  cleared  the 
way  for  more  rational  and  humane  types  of  religious 
thought.  I  will  now  return  to  my  musing  mood, 
and  relate  some  examples  of  the  tragical  in  nature 
which  have  come  under  my  personal  observation, 

I  heard  an  owl  as  I  sat  late  in  my  study-cabin, 
which  is  secluded  and  away  from  the  haunts  of  the 
campers,  and  went  to  the  door  to  look  out  at  the 
play  of  the  full  moonbeams  among  the  trees  and  on 
the  lake.  An  owl,  in  a  clump  of  pines  on  the  main- 
land, repeated  his  call,  and  it  was  peculiar — never 
heard  an  owl  hoot  that  way  before.  His  first  note 
was  given  with  energy,  the  second  was  a  trill,  a 
shudder  of  sound,  and  the  third  keyed  high,  after 
the  manner  of  the  great  northern  owl.  I  had  heard 
the  first  and  last  many  a  time,  but  not  the  second. 
I  was  alone,  and  a  little  wave  of  superstition  came 
over  the  water,  like  a  fresh  breeze  when  one  is  warm 
— just  a  little  chilly;  but  I  said:  "What  a  ridicu- 
lous fellow  he  is — a  bunch  of  yellow-gray  feathers, 
staring  eyes,  opening  his  sickle  beak  to  let  out  a 
noise  that  is  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  size  and  to 
the  inconsequentiality  of  him;  and  now  his  mate 
has  responded,  and  come  to  him.  Likely  enough 
that  owl-talk  is  a  courtship  under  the  witchery  of 
the  moon — he  can't  kiss  her,  though.  He  snaps  his 
beak — I  suppose  that  is  his  way  of  telling  her  that 
she  is  sweet  enough  to  eat." 

I  was  about  to  retire  into  my  cabin,  when  right 


The  Tragical  171  Nature  75 

below  me  in  the  lake  a  wild  duck  gave  a  cry  louder 
than  I  supposed  a  duck  could  make.  "He  has  seen 
me  by  the  lamplight  through  the  open  door,"  I 
thought,  "and  is  giving  the  alarm."  But  the  duck 
kept  on  crying.  That  is  no  note  of  warning — that 
is  a  shriek  of  mortal  agony.  There  was  some 
splashing  in  the  water,  and  the  duck's  cries  began 
to  grow  feebler,  feebler,  diminishing,  and  ending  at 
last  in  a  sound  as  nearly  a  groan  as  one  could  im- 
agine from  a  bird — the  last  shudder  of  pain  and  of 
life.  Really  it  was  horrible,  much  more  so  than  if 
the  tragedy  had  been  visible:  and  I  went  back  into 
my  cabin  out  of  the  wild  and  frightful  realm  of 
superstition.  So  that  was  the  meaning  of  the  pecu- 
liar cry  of  the  owl.  He  was  calling  on  his  mate  for 
reinforcement.  The  duck  had  evidently  taken 
alarm,  and  swam,  perhaps  diving,  too  near  the  shore 
of  the  island;  but  death  had  followed  on  noiseless 
wing.  It  was  nothing  but  a  wild  duck;  true,  and 
yet  it  was  a  cruel  murder.  I  will  hunt  for  that  owl 
to-morrow,  and  kill  him  if  I  find  him.  It  is  a  satis- 
faction to  avenge  a  crime,  even  if  the  victim  be  only 
a  harmless  water-fowl.  Did  you  ever  examine  atten- 
tively a  living  quail,  pheasant,  duck,  or  other  game- 
bird,  or  even  a  domestic  fowl?  If  so,  you  admired 
the  beauty  and  perfection  of  the  organism,  the 
bright  eye,  the  exquisitely  modeled  and  penciled 
plumage,  the  perfect  adaptation  of  the  form  to 
swimming  or  flying.  It  is  really  a  marvel  of  com- 
plex design,  much  more  so  than  that  of  a  rose  or  a 


76       Mtisin^s  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

simple  flower.  Then  imagine  yourself — though  you 
need  not  imagine  what  you  do  yourself  or  by 
proxy.  You  strike  and  kill  the  innocent  thing,  tear 
off  its  plumage,  eat  its  flesh,  and  pick  its  bones — 
but  do  not  be  alarmed!  I  have  not  sworn  to  hunt 
and  kill  you  to-morrow.  Men  and  women  men,  and 
men  and  women  owls,  are  the  same — savage  all. 

Now  come  with  me  and  let  us  take  our  pails  and 
gather  some  blueberries.  We  shall  have  to  walk  a 
mile  or  more,  for  though  the  vines  are  growing 
everywhere,  it  is  only  where  they  escaped  the  fire 
or  frost  that  any  fruit  is  to  be  found.  Notice  how 
the  plant  lifts  two  or  three  berries  on  its  topmost 
spray  to  attract  your  attention.  Put  your  hand 
down  among  the  ferns,  under  a  bunch,  and  they 
will  drop  into  your  palm.  There  is  a  docility  and 
willingness  that  needs  no  force.  All  the  sweetness 
and  fragrance  of  the  sapphires  are  intended  to  tempt 
you  to  gather  them  and  carry  them  away;  so  that 
you  not  only  respect  the  life  of  the  plant,  but  com- 
ply with  its  wishes — neither  hurt  nor  wrong  anything. 
We  shall  probably  start  a  deer  on  the  way.  It  will 
give  one  startled  gaze,  and  then  go  bounding  high 
over  brush  and  thicket.  He  knows  we  are  carnivor- 
ous, and  would  kill  and  eat  him  if  we  could  catch  him. 

As  we  came  through  the  forest  of  Wolf  Lake, 
some  one  exclaimed,  "There  is  a  tragedy!"  It  was 
a  hawk  chasing  a  small  bird,  and  an  exciting  chase 
it  was.  The  bird  could  turn  the  quicker,  and  the 
hawk  had  much  to  do  in  checking  his  rushes.     Up 


The  Tragical  171  Nature  j'j 

and  down,  around  and  about  they  went,  each  doing 
its  best,  the  bird  for  its  life,  the  hawk  for  its  din- 
ner. The  bird  was  taking  advantage  of  the  limbs 
and  foliage  of  a  large  balsam.  He  could  go  through 
holes  in  the  sheety  foliage  that  baffled  the  hawk  and 
blinded  his  aim.  But  that  bird  was  foolish  for  once. 
It  left  the  balsam  and  flew  across  toward  another 
tree  a  hundred  feet  away.  The  last  we  could  see 
of  the  chase  the  hawk  was  right  on  the  heels  of  the 
bird  as  they  crossed  the  open  space.  It  was  the 
opinion  that  the  hawk  had  won  his  murderous  race, 
but  the  bird  evidently  made  a  correct  calculation. 
The  hawk  rose  in  the  air  and  flew  over  our  heads, 
but  he  had  no  bird  in  his  talons.  He  alighted  on 
the  topmost  limb  of  a  tall  pine  which  stood  out 
alone,  choosing  a  place  which  would  give  him  an 
unobstructed  view.  It  is  curious  to  notice  the 
nonchalance  of  birds,  and  even  of  minnows,  in  the 
near  presence  of  deadly  enemies.  They  appear  to 
have  confidence  in  their  skill  in  dodging. 

The  prettiest  example  of  a  chase  between  a 
rapacious  and  a  gallinaceous  bird,  not  infrequent 
in  my  boyhood,  was  that  between  a  hawk  and  a 
domesticated  pigeon.  It  was  not  unusual  to  see 
a  hawk  coming  on  a  swift  and  level  flight  from  his 
eyrie  on  some  tall  forest  tree,  straight  for  the  covey 
which  were  sunning  themselves  and  cooing  on  the 
roof  of  the  barn.  The  pigeons  immediately  took 
wing  and  scattered,  but  rose  in  the  air.  The  hawk 
would  select  the  one  that  was  lowest,  and  presum- 


78       Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

ably  the  weakest  flyer,  and  the  chase  began.  The 
pigeon  moved  in  a  spiral  circle,  about  two  hundred 
feet  in  diameter,  and  a  remarkably  true  circle  it 
was.  Constantly  ascending  as  around  and  around 
he  flew  in  his  spiral  and  graceful  upward  movement, 
the  hawk  following  as  closely  as  he  could,  the 
pigeon  at  every  circle  would  be  seen  to  have  in- 
creased his  advantage  in  height.  His  motive  in 
this  ascent  is  that  he  instinctively  knows  he  can 
outfly  his  enemy  in  making  it.  The  motive  of  the 
hawk  is  his  knowledge  that  he  is  swifter  than  any 
bird  in  pouncing  from  above.  In  some  instances 
the  parties  to  the  chase  would  become  mere  specks 
in  the  sky,  with  constantly  increasing  advantage  in 
the  rarer  atmosphere  to  the  pursued,  because  the 
hawk  is  built  for  battle,  like  an  ironclad.  He  would 
finally  give  up  the  chase  as  hopeless,  and  descend 
as  he  went  up,  in  circles,  though  much  wider.  The 
pigeon,  after  soaring  till  he  thought  he  could 
descend  in  safety,  came  directly  down  in  graceful 
stoops.  I  never  saw  a  hawk  succeed  in  catching  a 
pigeon  in  the  air.  He  must  confine  his  attention 
to  young  and  undeveloped  birds,  which  though  they 
would  always  make  the  attempt  to  rise,  were 
quickly  frustrated  by  the  enemy. 

I  witnessed  a  startling  tragedy  to-day.  Passing 
along  the  shore  of  the  North  Twin,  I  heard  pound- 
ing feet,  and  looking  along  the  wide  and  thinly 
brushed  slope  from  the  north,  saw  a  large  doe 
coming  down  in  splendid  style  at  the  top  of  her 


The  Tragical  in  Nature  79 

speed,  and  knowing  that  wolves  were  in  pursuit, 
held  my  rifle  for  a  quick  shot,  and  awaited  the 
event.  Of  the  deer's  safety  I  had  no  doubt.  In  a 
moment  she  would  take  a  flying  leap  into  deep 
water,  disappear,  and  rise  in  safety  some  rods  away 
from  shore.  But  from  a  little  brushy  cape  two 
wolves,  which  were  lying  in  wait,  rushed  out,  and 
the  deer  briefly  but  fatally  hesitated.  Had  she 
kept  on  she  would  have  easily  leaped  over  and 
cleared  them.  Instantly  three  more  closed  in  from 
behind,  and  she  then  tried,  but  too  late,  to  make 
her  flying  bound,  though  she  dragged  one  of  them 
clear  of  the  ground  in  her  effort.  I  was  astonished 
and  startled  by  the  sudden  and  wholly  unexpected 
denouement.  Such  an  infernal  din  of  screams  and 
growls  I  never  heard  before,  and  the  deer  cried  out 
piteously.  But  I  quickly  recovered  from  agitation 
sufficiently  to  hold  my  arm  steady,  and  more  than 
once  changed  it  to  make  sure  of  one  of  the  tum- 
bling pack — fired,  after  which  the  firing  must  be 
rapid  and  less  surely  aimed.  The  wolves  now  made 
the  mistake  which  the  deer  had  first  made,  of  hesi- 
tating. I  got  in  two  more  telling  shots  and  a  flying 
one.  Of  the  five  I  had  killed  two  and  wounded  one. 
I  was  highly  elated  over  my  part  of  the  tragedy. 

What  was  particularly  noticeable  was  the  quick- 
ness with  which  the  wolves  had  torn  and  killed  the 
deer.  In  another  moment  their  powerful  jaws  and 
muscular  necks  would  have  made  fragments  of  the 
carcass.     The  deer   had    been   reduced    to    uncon- 


8o       Musings  by  Canip-Fire  and  Wayside 

sciousness  almost  immediately  after  she  was  dragged 
down.  This  startling  incident  gave  me  new  light 
on  the  character  of  Nature's  tragedies. 

Across  a  high  ridge  from  our  home  Island  Lake 
lies  a  beautiful  round  pool,  scarcely  over  eighty 
rods  in  diameter,  but  sixty  feet  deep,  fringed  with 
white  birches,  a  little  emerald  beauty.  We  noticed, 
when  exploring  here,  that  it  was  teeming  with  small 
bass  not  over  six  inches  in  length,  all  of  a  size  and 
all  adults.  The  explanation  was  not  far  to  find. 
This  lake  has  been  isolated  from  other  waters  for 
centuries,  and  its  inhabitants  were  reduced  to 
dwarfs  by  overcrowding  and  starvation. 

There  can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  room  for  choice 
between  a  sudden — and  if  painful,  for  the  briefest 
moment  painful,  death— and  a  lingering  and  miser- 
able decay  from  slow  disease  or  starvation.  It  is 
true  that  the  prayer-book  has  among  its  petitions 
this  one:  "From  sudden  death,  good  Lord,  deliver 
us."  But  that  was  put  in  to  keep  in  repair  the  idea 
that  time  in  which  to  secure  the  ministrations  of  the 
priest  is  desirable. 

The  conclusions  from  these  facts  are,  that  the 
tragedies  of  Nature  are  benign;  that  they  reduce  to 
a  minimum  the  sum  total  of  pain;  and  that  con- 
versely they  greatly  increase  the  possibilities  and 
the  great  aggregate  of  happiness.  They  are  also 
essential  to  the  development  of  the  high  orders  of 
life,  including  man,  with  his  splendid  possibilities 
of  joy  in  the  higher  planes  of  knowledge. 


a^u^ing  tl^e  ^ixtl) 


The  Music  of  the  Spheres 


LIVING  under  the  shade  of  trees  by  day  and 
under  the  stars  at  night,  with  a  roof  over 
one's  head  only  when  it  rains  or  when  asleep, 
it  is  natural  that  one  should  gaze  at  the  stars,  see 
many  splendid  meteors,  and  take  much  note  of  the 
coming  and  going  of  the  moon,  and  the  rising  and 
setting  of  the  constellations.  There  is  no  such  dial 
for  marking  the  time  as  that  of  which  the  polar  star 
is  the  pivot.  There  glitter  the  constellations  of  Ursa 
Major,  or  as  it  has  been  called,  the  "Dipper,"  the 
"Chariot  of  Arthur,"  the  "Chariot  of  David," 
"King  Charles's  Wain,"  and  the  "Plow,"  the  con- 
stellations also  of  the  Lyre,  Ursa  Minor,  the 
Dragon,  and  those  brilliant  queens  of  the  North, 
Cassiopeia  and  Andromeda,  and  the  "demon"  star 
Algol.  These  revolve  majestically  around  Stella 
Polaris,  and  one  can  mark  the  hours  as  they  pass 
by  observing  them.  Among  them  is  Arcturus, 
mentioned  by  Job,  though  it  is  probable  that  he 
referred  to  Ursa  Major,  the  constellation. 

The  plain  moon  in  a  clear  sky  is  beautiful,  but 

like  a  beautiful  woman,  its  charms  are  heightened 

by  drapery.      This  one  may  have  at  times  anywhere 

by  the  clouds,  but  always  here  by  the  tall  pines,  of 

8i 


82       Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

the  fleecy  foliage  of  which  Luna  makes  an  aureole 
and  a  veil  for  herself,  while  she  lets  fall  her  train  of 
silver  across  the  dimpling  lake. 

When  the  August  meteors  come  on,  about  the 
nth  of  the  month,  we  betake  ourselves  to  the  boats 
for  an  unobstructed  view  of  the  sky,  and  count 
them  as  they  come.  One  of  the  most  curious  things 
about  astronomy  is  the  vast  number  of  these  dimiiju- 
tive  planets,  some  flying  singly  and  some  in  long 
trains.  The  stellar  orbs  are  of  all  sizes,  from  that 
of  a  minute  grain  of  sand  up  to  the  gigantic  Sirius, 
twelve  hundred  times  larger  than  our  enormous  sun; 
their  diameters  a  sand  grain,  a  pea,  an  apple,  a 
boulder,  a  half-mile,  a  mile,  twenty  miles,  a  hun- 
dred. Vesta,  diameter  250  miles;  the  moon,  2,160; 
Mercury,  3,000;  the  earth,  8,000;  Jupiter,  88,000; 
the  sun,  866,000;  Sirius,  3,000,000  miles.  Imagine 
little  toy  worlds,  with  moons  not  bigger  than  wal- 
nuts, as  seriously  moving  in  their  orbits  around  the 
sun  as  does  our  own  earth,  their  days  and  nights 
only  a  minute,  or  an  hour  long!  and  then  worlds  so 
large  that  they  grapple  on  nearly  equal  terms  with 
Algol  and  Sirius,  and  swing  them  untiringly  around 
in  space  forever  and  ever! 

Persons  who  do  not  live  by  lakes  have  little  idea 
of  the  great  variety  of  beauties  which  they  display. 
I  have  mentioned,  in  previous  years,  our  Fourth  of 
July  celebrations.  We  go  to  considerable  expense 
in  fire-works,  and  it  is  always  a  regret  to  me  that 
our  readers  cannot  see  them.      Fire-works  on  the 


The  Music  of  the  Spheres  83 

land  are  tame  in  their  beauty  compared  with  those 
on  smooth  water.  All  preparations  are  completed 
during  the  day.  We  make  some  bombs  of  tough 
paper  and  glue,  wrapping  the  paper  in  long  strips 
about  a  nucleus  of  a  few  ounces  of  gunpowder. 
The  glue,  with  which  the  paper  is  saturated,  makes 
the  bomb  as  hard  and  almost  as  tough  as  iron. 
TJiese  are  fired  for  the  sake  of  the  echoes,  which 
crash  back  and  forth  from  the  shores,  and  end  in 
long-drawn,  far-away  diminuendoes.  The  point  of 
land  at  the  north  end  of  the  island  is  selected  for 
the  display  of  fire-works.  All  but  the  operator 
betake  themselves  to  boats,  or  seat  themselves  on 
the  opposite  shore.  There  is  but  little  difference 
between  the  brilliance  of  the  rocket  or  wheel  and 
that  of  its  reflection  on  the  water.  Now  you  can 
understand  that  one  standing  with  a  roman  candle 
in  each  hand  can  describe  ellipses,  circles,  figure 
8's,  and  so  on,  of  the  red,  blue,  green,  and  other 
colors  of  the  balls  of  fire  which  they  shoot  out,  one- 
half  of  the  lines  oeing  in  the  air  and  the  other  half 
in  the  water.  A  rocket  makes  a  great  {\  )  bracket. 
There  is  great  enthusiasm  all  day  among  the  little 
folks  in  preparing  for  the  evening.  We  always  have 
a  sumptuous  dinner  served  in  courses,  the  fish  and 
roasts  and  partridges  taken  freshly  in  the  woods 
and  lakes  the  day  previous.  When  the  fire-works 
are  over,  the  day's  festivities  are  concluded  with  a 
two-gallon  pail  of  lemonade,  garnished  with  birch- 
bark    bowls    piled    high    with    snowflake    crackers, 


84       Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

snaps,  and  other  curiosities  of  the  bakery.  Lemon- 
ade is  no  sort  of  lemonade  anywhere  but  in  the 
woods.  The  absence  of  tart  fruits  gives  a  keen 
appreciation  of  the  lemon,  its  acidulous  soul  reduced 
to  docility  by  the  persuasion  of  sugar,  and  by  the 
way,  not  clarified  sugar.  The  white  granulated 
sugar  gives  you  nothing  but  sweet.  Take  the  light- 
est brown ;  we  bought  a  two  hundred  and  fifty-pound 
barrel  of  it  at  four  cents  per  pound.  It  does  not 
have  the  strong  molassesy  tang  of  the  sugar-cane, 
but  a  suggestion  of  it  only.  Light  brown  sugar  in 
lemonade  is  a  tropical  reminiscence.  It  is  a  dream 
of  the  live-oak,  of  the  gold-orange  glistening  in  the 
green,  of  the  trailing  mosses  and  blooms  of  the 
Antilles.    . 

The  patriotic  rite  of  the  lemonade  and  cakes, 
the  union  of  the  wheat-fields  of  Dakota  with  the 
fruits  and  sweets  of  Georgia,  esto  perpetual  duly 
observed — the  boys  so  tired  they  could  scarcely 
drag  themselves  off  to  bed — I  retired  with  the  rest, 
but  soon  found  that  it  was  not  my  night  for  sleep- 
ing. Now,  if  there  is  any  sensation  unmitigated  in 
its  meanness  it  is  staring  wakefulness  when  you 
know  you  ought  to  be  asleep.  I  positively  will  not 
have  anything  to  do  with  it.  I  know  of  nothing 
meaner  or  more  humiliating  to  human  dignity, 
unless  it  be  a  heresy  trial.  So  after  seeing  that 
my  bedfellow,  one  of  the  Wills,  was  sleeping  cool 
and  sweetly,  I  rose,  dressed,  waked  up  the  camp- 
fire,  and  watched  the  stars.     The  moon  was  setting 


The  Music  of  the  spheres  85 

in  the  pines.  There  were  a  number  of  little  mete- 
ors, and  one  splendid  one,  which  came  perpen- 
dicular with  a  great  train  of  light,  and  so  swiftly, 
disappearing  only  on  the  horizon,  that  I  am  sure  it 
was  an  aerolite,  and  reached  the  earth  not  very  far 
away.  I  concluded  to  listen,  to  discover  if  I  could 
hear  the  music  of  the  spheres.  That  the  celestial 
spheres  do  make  audible  music  it  were  heresy  to 
doubt.  There  is  no  tradition  better  established, 
nor  one  that  can  show  an  equal  array  of  great 
names  and  high  authorities,  reaching  from  Pythag- 
oras to  Kepler,  over  two  thousand  years  of  unques- 
tioned acceptance  by  the  greatest  theologians, 
philosophers,  and  poets  of  the  world.  No  straight- 
away, thorough-going  traditionalist  like  myself  can 
ever  doubt  it.  This  celestial  choir,  according  to 
Timsus,  commenting  on  Pythagoras,  spans  the 
octave  thus:  The  siren  who  sings  between  the  earth 
and  the  first  vitreous  firmament  has  one  tone;  she 
who  sings  between  the  firmament  of  the  moon  and 
that  of  Mercury,  half  a  tone;  a  half-tone  thence  to 
Venus;  one  and  a  half  to  the  sun  (the  Ptolemaic 
system,  mind  you) ;  one  and  a  half  from  the  sun  to 
Mars;  one  and  a  half  from  Mars  to  Jupiter;  and  so 
on  out  to  the  sphere  into  the  inner  surface  of  which 
the  spangle-nails  of  the  fixed  stars  are  driven.  A 
tone  stands  for  14,286  miles.  The  sun  is  distant 
500,000  miles,  and  the  firmament  of  the  fixed  stars 
500,000  miles  farther,  the  whole  radius  of  the 
universe  being  1,000,000   miles,  and   its  diameter 


86       Mtisings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

2,000,000.  After  Pythagoras  and  Timaeus,  the 
next  most  distinguished  name  is  that  of  Plato. 
The  crystalline  spheres,  each  separated  from  but 
inclosed  by  and  inclosing  others,  are  by  their  very 
nature  resonant.  Anybody  can  test  this  fact  for 
himself  by  listening  to  the  boom  which  sounds  after 
a  crash  of  thunder.  That  is  caused  by  the  jar 
which  the  thunder  gives  to  the  moon-firmament. 
It  sounds  precisely  as  a  great  bell  does  when  set  to 
vibrating.  The  greatest  name  in  support  of  the 
music  of  the  celestial  spheres  is  Aristotle,  not  to 
mention  Democritus,  Lucretius,  and  others.  Fol- 
lowing Aristotle,  all  the  theologians  of  the  Christian 
church  taught  it,  and  a  man  who  should  deny  it 
would  be  a  heretic  to  be  abhorred,  as  he  ought  to 
be.  Such  a  man  hath  no  music  in  his  soul,  and  a 
priori,  according  to  Shakespeare,  is  fit  for  treason, 
stratagems,  and  spoils.  In  such  a  case  there  is  no 
use  in  waiting  for  the  overt  act,  but  much  harm. 
By  burning  him  we  save,  first,  the  damage  to  others 
by  the  overt  act,  and  second,  we  save  the  man  him- 
self from  actual  commission  of  deadly  sin. 

The  spheres,  being  in  constant  and  harmonious 
motion,  give  off  the  music.  I  spoke  of  the  sirens. 
That  was  the  notion  of  Cicero.  It  is  not  orthodox. 
Cicero  was  a  festive  sort  of  a  philosopher,  with  a 
predilection  for  sirens.  He  said  they  were  infatu- 
ated of  their  own  divine  voices  and  songs,  and 
danced  to  the  music  on  the  polished  surfaces  of  the 
spheres,  waving  their  white  arms  in  the  ether,  and 


The  Music  of  the  spheres  87 

weaving  in  and  out  on  the  starry  floor.  But  as  I 
said,  that  is  a  pagan  interpolation  by  Cicero  of  the 
true  doctrine.  The  celibate  popes  and  monks  would 
have  none  of  it.  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  improved 
upon  Cicero,  without  wholly  rejecting  his  ideas,  by 
turning  the  music  over  to  St.  Cecilia,  by  whom  it 
was  rendered  more  decorous  and  appropriate.  St. 
Cecilia  was  a  decided  improvement  upon  the  sirens 
of  Cicero,  though  not  so  poetical  nor  so  good- 
looking. 

[Inasmuch  as  this  treatise  on  the  music  of  the 
spheres  was  written  in  the  woods,  and  away  from 
my  books,  it  is  proper,  with  the  authorities  of  my 
library  at  hand,  that  I  should  make  some  correc- 
tions, and  also  further  fortify  my  position.  I  find 
that  Cicero  did  not  originate  the  siren  theory. 
Plato  sets  it  forth  (Republic,  x.  14),  but  he  quotes 
it,  with  his  indorsement,  from  some  still  more 
ancient  authority,  some  philosophic  school  which 
existed  before  his  time  (450  B.  C).  It  is  greatly 
to  the  credit  of  Plato's  fidelity  to  ancient  tradition 
that  he  did  not  give  up  the  sirens,  even  though 
Xantippe  pitched  hot  water  on  him  and  his  master 
as  he  sat  at  the  feet  of  Socrates.  Any  less  resolute 
philosopher  than  Plato  would  have  taken  revenge 
on  Xantippe  by  taking  the  sirens  out  of  the  ranks 
of  her  sex,  and  making  satyrs  of  them.  So  much 
by  way  of  correction.  Now,  a  word  to  the  modern 
astronomers  and  philosophers,  who  have  abandoned 
the  old  paths,  and  are  teaching  the  strange  doc- 


88       Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

trines  of  one  Galileo,  a  crazy  Italian;  and  those  of 
a  dreamy  Dutchman,  of  whom  it  is  enough  to  say 
that  he  forsook  the  honest  and  homely  name  of  his 
shop-keeping  father,  and  Latinized  himself  as  Coper- 
nicus! "Copernicus,"  forsooth!  His  name  was 
Koppernicht,  or  in  plain  English,  "Nary-a-copper. " 
His  mother  was  a  "Watzelrode,"  which  shows  that 
she  tended  geese,  or  at  least  lived  on  an  obscure 
trail.  That  is  the  kind  of  a  man  whom  these  mod- 
ern philosophers  are  running  after.  They  profess 
to  know  more  than  the  peerless  Plato,  disciple 
of  Socrates,  and  master  of  Aristotle,  and  follow 
Koppernicht,  an  impecunious,  ignorant,  Cracowan 
goose-herd!  No  wonder  we  high-souled  Platonians 
regard  their  philosophy  as  mere  goose-gabble. 
They  come  honestly  by  it.  Now,  what  does  my 
great  Plato  say?  What  did  he  say  to  Socrates,  his 
master?  He  said  that  the  eight  spheres  were  like 
casks,  fitted  one  within  another,  and  that  a  great 
spindle,  like  a  distaff,  was  thrust  through  the  mid- 
dle, and  on  this  they  revolve;  that  there  is  an  open- 
ing, after  the  manner  of  Astarte's  lips  when  she  is 
laughing,  through  each  crystalline  sphere,  by  which 
access  is  gained  from  one  to  another.  The  outer 
or  eighth  sphere  is  variegated  in  color,  the  seventh 
is  brightest,  the  second  and  fifth  yellow,  and  the 
third  bright  white.  They  revolve  with  differing 
speeds.  The  distaff,  or  spindle,  is  sustained  on  the 
knees  of  Necessity.  Each  sphere  has  its  siren  sit- 
ting on  the  outside  of  her  sphere,  and  all  sing  in 


The  Music  of  the  Spheres 


harmony,  though  in  diverse  modulations.  "There 
are,"  Plato  says,  "the  three  daughters  of  Necessity, 
Lachesis,  Clotho,  and  Atropos,  singing  to  the  har- 
mony of  the  sirens;  Lachesis  sings  of  the  past  [she 
is  my  girl],  Clotho  of  the  present,  and  Atropos  of 
the  future."  There  you  have  it!  Plato  against 
Koppernicht!] 

Now,  I  hope  I  have  said  enough  to  convince  all 
true  traditionalists  of  the  truth  that  the  celestial 
spheres  are  musical.  The  only  reason  why  our 
modern  philosophers  do  not  hear  the  music  is  be- 
cause they  are  making  an  eternal  racket  themselves. 
It  was  past  midnight  as  I  sat  by  the  great  crum- 
bling coals  of  the  camp-fire  and  listened.  The  con- 
ditions, after  all  the  advantages,  were  not  wholly 
favorable.  There  was  still  much  to  take  my  atten- 
tion. The  glowing  coals  would  crumble  and  fall, 
and  a  new  flame  flash  up.  The  aerolite  fell  and  set 
me  to  thinking  about  the  meteors.  A  whippoorwill 
started  up  so  far  away  that  I  set  myself  to  distin- 
guish his  articulations.  Then  an  owl,  one  of  the 
great  northern  screamers,  and  with  his  first  note  I 
was  sure  he  was  a  wolf,  as  almost  anybody  would 
be,  and  I  rose  to  my  feet  to  listen  to  the  plunge  of 
a  pursued  deer  in  the  lake,  thinking  he  would  swim 
across  to  the  island ;  and  then  those  noisy  rascals, 
the  l(X)ns.  They  were  calling  to  each  other  across 
miles  of  forest.  I  heard  one  on  Deer  Lake,  five 
miles  away,  and  that  reminded  me  of  the  day  I  took 
my  young  New  York  friends  over  there  hunting. 


go       Miisings  by  Canip-Fire  and  Wayside 

There  came  a  lull  in  the  voices  of  Nature, 
excepting  only  the  breathing  of  the  pines,  and  so  I 
looked  steadily  up  and  listened,  scarcely  breathing 
myself.  Yes,  there  it  was,  something  like  a  very 
distant  chime  of  bells,  only  softer  than  any  expanse 
of  water  could  make  sound  which  floated  across  it, 
soft,  dreamy,  far-away.  It  was  not  like  a  distant 
bell-chime  in  this,  that  the  bell  starts  off  with  its 
largest  volume  of  sound,  and  then  diminishes;  while 
this  music  of  the  celestial  spheres  rose  softly  and 
fell  away  softly,  the  tones  sometimes  simultaneous 
and  blending,  and  sometimes  melodiously  rising  and 
falling. 

How  long  I  listened  and  heard  I  do  not  know, 
for  the  music  passed  into  a  vision,  and  I  was  talk- 
ing to  my  father  and  mother.  Both  of  them  were 
sitting  near  each  other  and  talking  to  me.  The 
vision  also  passed,  and  there  was  a  glow  over  the 
water  and  over  the  land,  and  I  turned  to  the  north- 
east to  see  that  the  sky  was  all  ashes  of  roses  above, 
deepening  in  color  down  to  the  horizon. 

Yes,  I  know  as  well  as  anybody  else  that  one  can 
hear  anything  he  listens  for.  I  have  waited  in  the 
woods  for  a  coming  wagon,  and  could  plainly  hear 
the  rattle  of  its  wheels  before  it  had  started.  I 
have  heard  the  unmistakable  plash  of  a  deer's  feet 
in  the  water  when  no  deer  was  near.  I  have  heard 
the  plantigrade  tread  of  a  bear,  and  turned  with  a 
throbbing  heart  to  catch  a  shot  when  no  bear  was 
near.     I  have  heard  my  name  called,  and  started  to 


The  Music  of  the  Spheres  9 1 

answer,  when  the  quick  thought  came,  with  a  sad 
disappointment,  that  the  voice  I  heard  calling  me 
had  been  silent  half  as  many  years  as  I  have  lived. 
We  can  hear  what  we  listen  for,  believe  what  we 
wish  were  true,  expect  what  we  desire,  anticipate 
and  dwell  in  a  better  future.  My  body  is  this  cabin- 
camp  where  I  sleep  and  rest.  My  soul  is  myself, 
free  to  wander  where  it  will,  to  see  lands  not  lit  by 
the  sun,  and  to  hear  music  which  comes  not  in  the 
chariots  of  the  air. 


Hunting 


A  PARTY  of  us,  including  ladies,  the  girls  and 
boys,  and  Georgie,  our  young  Indian,  some 
walking,  some  in  the  wagon,  made  an  ex- 
cursion one  afternoon  to  Four  Mile  Lake,  a  sheet  of 
water  which  lies  among  high  hills.  We  descended  to 
it,  and  were  sitting  under  the  trees  on  its  margin 
when  a  finely  antlered  deer  was  seen  feeding  along 
the  shore  and  coming  toward  us.  The  conversation 
was  dropped  to  whispers  as  the  beautiful  creature 
came  on.  My  attention  was  attracted  to  Georgie. 
I  never  saw  a  richer  and  clearer  complexion  than 
his — a  light  bronze,  better  to  my  eye  than  brunette. 
He  is  straight  as  an  arrow,  fine  eyes,  regular  feat- 
ures, a  model  for  a  Phidias.  Georgie  was  in  a 
quiver  of  excitement,  his  eyes  glistening,  and  he 
shouting  in  whispers:  '*0h,  isn't  he  a  beauty!  Oh, 
what  a  pretty  shot!  Just  look  at  him!  Just  see 
him!  Oh!  oh!"  But  Georgie  was  familiar  with 
deer,  saw  them  every  day,  had  been  raised  chiefly 
on  venison,  and  had  successfully  hunted  all  kinds 
of  game,  so  the  deer  was  no  novelty  to  him,  and  yet 
he  "went  wild"  at  the  sight  of  this  one.  It  was 
the  hunting  instinct  awakened  by  the  sight  of  the 
game.  In  the  white  man  it  is  modified,  though  never 
93 


Hunting  93 


extinguished.  In  the  Indian  it  is  a  passion.  Rather 
than  forego  its  gratification  he  will  turn  his  back 
upon  all  the  comforts  and  pleasures  of  civilized  life. 
White  men  do  the  same,  in  large  numbers,  when 
they  have  the  opportunity ;  and  when  the  pleasures  of 
such  a  life  have  once  been  tasted,  they  are  not  re- 
linquished willingly.  Nothing  but  famine  will  drive 
man  from  the  chase  and  compel  him  to  the  dull  toil 
of  agriculture.  The  deer  came  on  till  it  was  within 
a  few  yards  of  the  two  Wills.  They  clapped  their 
hands  and  shouted,  and  away  it  went  like  a  shot. 

Last  year  a  deer  swam  across  to  our  island  and 
made  a  pleasant  call  upon  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
and  then  swam  in  safety  back  to  the  mainland. 
The  cook  seized  his  rifle,  but  was  directed  to  set  it 
aside.  She  was  charmed  with  the  deer's  innocent 
face,  its  gaze  of  wonder  anci  surprise,  and  decided 
that  as  it  had  given  her  so  much  pleasure  by  the 
visit,  it  should  retire  as  securely  as  it  came. 

Two  or  three  years  ago,  while  camping  on  the 
Sturgeon,  in  Michigan,  I  expressed  my  indignation 
at  a  large  party  who  came  in  with  packs  of  hounds, 
and  I  then  avowed  my  determination  in  all  cases 
where  I  saw  a  race  between  a  hound  and  a  deer  to 
stop  the  hound.  A  hound  makes  as  pretty  a  shot 
as.  a  hunter  could  ask  for.  I  was  much  gratified  to 
learn  that  last  year  all  the  hounds  brought  into  that 
region  stayed  there.  The  still  hunters  passed  the 
word,  and  a  fine  dog-hunt  occurred.  The  only  lack 
of  fitness  was  that  the  Indians  did  not  do  it.     They 


94       Musings  by  Cainp-Fire  and  Wayside 

are  partial  to  barbecued  dog.  A  dog  can  be  trained 
to  track  down  a  wounded  deer,  which  is  the  only 
proper  use  for  dogs  in  the  chase.  It  is  barbarous 
to  employ  them  for  coursing  deer,  and  it  is  stupid 
meanness  and  pot-hunting  vagabondage  to  drive 
them  into  the  water  with  dogs.  A  man  who  would 
do  that  is  by  instinct  a  butcher,  and  ought  to  hire 
out  as  a  pig-sticker  in  the  Chicago  stock-yards.  He 
has  neither  the  instinct,  skill,  nor  spirit  to  be  a  still 
hunter.  Your  still  hunter  puts  on  his  moccasins 
and  goes  over  the  crumply  fern  and  pine  spikes  and 
dry  twigs  as  softly  as  he  can.  The  deer  hears  him 
and  starts  with  a  flying  bound.  The  hunter  now 
has  his  choice,  as  short  a  shot  on  the  fly  as  he  can 
get,  or  a  long  shot  when  the  deer  turns  to  gaze. 
One  successful  half-breed  hunter,  whom  I  know, 
always  shoots  on  the  wing.  Another  always  chooses 
the  long  standing  shot.  In  either  case  the  chances 
are  in  favor  of  the  deer,  and  that  is  fair.  Now, 
contrast  this  with  a  lazy  lout,  standing  on  a  runway 
by  a  lake  or  river  and  cooly  murdering  a  deer  with 
a  shot-gun  or  club  when  the  dogs  have  driven  him 
to  the  water! 

I  had  taken  a  stroll  with  my  canoe  on  my  back 
to  a  distant  lake  for  an  evening's  fishing.  This 
canoe  was  built  and  arranged  with  kubs  for  the 
oars,  and  fishing-rods,  and  other  supplies.  When  I 
wished  to  portage  it  I  would  grasp  the  sides  near 
one  end,  whirl  it  over  on  the  other  point,  raise  it  to 
near  the  perpendicular,  back  into  it,  and  adjust  the 


Hunting  95 


pack  straps  to  my  shoulders,  tilt  it  free  from  the 
ground,  and  walk  away  at  ease.  By  this  boat  I 
expected  to  test  my  declining  strength  in  the  old 
age  that  was  upon  me.  The  last  time  I  carried  it, 
it  was  borne  as  lightly  as  ever  before;  but  my  stal- 
wart frame  has  been  smitten  down,  and  I  shall  carry 
it  no  more. 

On  that  evening  the  bass  were  dull,  and  I  took 
a  stroll  into  the  forest,  expecting  a  call  from  a 
deer,  and  was  not  disappointed.  Soon  he  came, 
bounding  like  a  rubber  ball,  the  very  embodiment 
of  suppleness  and  elasticity.  He  drank,  made  a 
fling  or  two  with  his  heels,  and  then  plunged  over- 
head into  the  cool  water.  I  laughed  in  sympathy 
with  his  pleasure.  After  a  while  I  began  to  whistle. 
He  threw  up  his  head,  flashing  his  ears  this  way  and 
that.  Then  I  made  a  conch-shell  of  my  hands  and 
blew  a  horn  blast.  He  sprang  ashore  and  sought 
with  eyes  and  ears  for  the  source  of  the  unwonted 
sound.  Then  I  showed  myself  and  he  answered! 
Such  a  snort!  He  would  bound  a  few  rods  and 
then  blow  his  alarm  with  an  energy  that  was  exceed- 
ingly comical.  He  was  determined  that  every  deer 
within  a  mile  should  be  aware  of  the  presence  of  a 
natural  enemy,  but  in  this  instance  of  a  sympathiz- 
ing friend,  who  would  not  hurt  a  hair  of  his  red 
hide.      But  he  did  not  know  that. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  I  entered  my  boat  to 
cross  to  the  island,  and  I  saw  what  I  took  to  be  a 
Newfoundland   dog  swimming  for  the   same   goal. 


96       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

As  we  have  no  dog  of  any  kind,  I  wondered  thereat, 
but  when  nearly  across,  he  threw  up  his  head, 
paused,  then  turned  and  started  back.  I  saw  the 
water  splash  behind  him  and  before  him,  and  then 
came  the  roar  of  forty-five  rifles.  Zip,  splash,  bang, 
bang,  bang!  and  I  yelled  to  him:  "Good  luck  to 
you,  old  fellow!  Go  it!  Dive,  you  old  fool!  Why 
don't  you  dive?  They'll  knock  the  top  of  your 
head  off  if  you  don't  dive!"  But  the  bear — for 
such  he  was — just  put  in  his  biggest  licks  at  swim- 
ming, and  though  they  pumped  their  guns  empty  at 
him,  they  never  touched  him,  and  he  went  over  the 
bushes  like  a  deer  when  he  struck  land.  When  I 
sat  down  to  my  late  supper,  I  kept  yelling  at  the 
cook  to  bring  me  up  some  bear  steaks!  "Georgie," 
said  Johnny,  "we'd  better  be  dead.  The  doctor 
will  never  let  up  on  us  for  missing  that  bear." 

I  confess  that  I  once  hunted  for  sport,  but  now 
I  never  take  a  life  without  the  pressure  of  neces- 
sity. I  have  never  stood  over  a  dying  victim  with- 
out sharp  pangs  of  conscience.  It  is  awful  to  have 
innocent  eyes  turned  upon  one  in  mortal  agony,  a 
harmless  creature  dying  at  one's  hands.  The  pain 
it  gives  to  one's  sensibilities  far  overreaches  the 
pleasurable  excitement  of  the  chase.  This  is  espe- 
cially so  where  there  is  an  outcry.  It  is  pitiful  even 
to  see  a  bear  dying  in  the  woods,  and  to  hear  his 
protests.  So  now,  though  when  I  am  compelled  to 
hunt  deer  for  the  camp  I  am  usually  successful,  I 
turn   the  task  over  to  others  when  I  can.     The 


Hunting  97 


wolf,  or  the  hound  in  pursuit  of  a  deer,  I  shoot  with 
pleasure.  And  yet  no  one  can  see  even  a  fangy, 
cruel  wolf  in  a  trap  without  pitying  him.  He  puts 
his  head  down,  and  if  he  have  a  loose  paw,  covers 
his  eyes  with  it,  and  is  silent. 

The  sense  of  blood-guiltiness  in  killing  those 
harmless  and  beautiful  creatures,  and  of  wrong  in 
taking  advantage  of  the  very  human  instincts  of  the 
bears,  grew  upon  me  so  that  I  could  no  longer 
endure  it.  My  last  deer-hunt  was  in  the  middle  of 
the  90's.  The  cook  notified  me  that  the  meat  was 
out.  I  took  my  rifle  and  went  to  the  woods  for  a 
supply,  started  a  deer  which  ran  behind  a  large  pine 
and  put  his  head  out  to  watch  me.  I  made  the 
shot,  a  long  one,  missed,  and  went  on.  On  the 
summit  of  the  next  hill,  pausing  to  look,  I  was 
astonished  to  see  a  splendid  buck  not  over  thirty 
yards  distant,  standing  and  gazing  right  at  me.  I 
had  already  stopped,  but  was  carrying  my  rifle  by 
the  middle  in  my  right  hand.  I  was  in  black,  from 
hat  to  moccasins,  and  stood  motionless.  How  was 
I  to  bring  my  gun  to  bear?  On  the  least  movement 
on  my  part,  he  would  have  been  out  of  sight  in  the 
dense  thicket  at  a  single  bound.  I  began  to  lift 
the  gun  so  slowly  as  to  show  no  motion,  and  thus 
very  gradually  brought  it  up,  and  then  with  a  quick 
movement  fired. 

He  was  helplessly  wounded,  not  killed.  As  I 
advanced  upon  him,  he  fixed  his  large,  lustrous, 
frightened  eyes  upon  me,  and  I  ended  his  life  with 


q8       Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

another  shot.  There  he  lay  in  all  his  purity  and 
beauty.  I  was  smitten  to  the  heart  with  remorse. 
I  considered  that  he  had  lived  the  pure  and  inno- 
cent life  of  Nature,  had  never  harmed  any  one  or 
anything,  and  there  he  lay,  the  victim  of  an  invader 
and  murderer. 

This  ended  my  hunting,  a  favorite  sport  of  more 
than  half  a  century,  and  which  had  the  double 
attraction  that  it  led  me  deep  into  the  solitudes  of 
Nature,  with  their  unfading  freshness  and  unfailing 
charms. 


THE      BOATHOUSE 


Nature's  Intelligence 


THE  Mississippi  reaches  out  the  Desplaines 
River  to  dispute  with  Lake  Michigan  for 
the  rainfall  that  is  due  to  the  lake — parallels 
the  lake  shore.  When  at  home  I  spend  many  Sun- 
day afternoons  in  the  woods  and  glades  which  lie 
along  this  river.  There  is  nothing  merry  or  musical 
in  this  prairie  stream.  It  is  small  enough  to  be 
young,  rash,  and  happy;  but  it  is  slow  and  solemn 
as  a  Sabbath  afternoon  of  my  boyhood.  It  flows 
without  a  ripple  or  a  dimple  between  its  banks  of 
black  loam,  and  really  does  not  appear  sufficiently 
spirited  to  kiss  a  pebbly  margin,  even  if  one  ran 
down  fresh  and  sweet  out  of  the  woods  to  meet  it. 
The  scenery  has  no  points.  It  lies  down  flat,  with 
a  dogged  determination  to  cast  no  reflections  on 
the  character  of  the  river.  But  it  is  better  for  a 
Sunday  afternoon  than  that  wild  city  down  there  on 
the  lake,  where  they  squeeze  the  juice  out  of  men 
as  if  they  were  lemons,  and  toss  the  rinds  away. 
And  then  I  find  no  end  of  pleasant  companions  in 
walks  otherwise  solitary.  They  are  not  as  avari- 
cious, original,  and  fresh  in  their  ideas  as  my  com- 
panions here  in  the  wilderness,  but  they  are  the  best 
substitute  that  is  to  be  had.  There  are  birds, 
99 


100     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 


flowers,  trees,  minnows,  horses,  honest-faced  cattle, 
all  of  them  sympathetic  and  talkative;  and  this  is 
no  poetic  or  figurative  sense,  but  really  and  truly. 

Sometimes  the  pleasure  of  an  opportunity  to 
requite  their  hospitality  offers.  One  Sunday  I 
found  a  sick  horse  lying  upon  the  cold,  wet  ground. 
When  he  saw  me  he  called  for  help  at  once,  lifted 
his  head,  touched  his  side  with  his  nose,  and 
groaned.  I  told  him  I  was  very  sorry  for  him,  and 
that  he  must  not  lie  there,  but  get  up  and  go  home, 
and  that  he  should  have  a  warm  bed  and  some  medi- 
cine. He  was  too  weak  and  benumbed  to  rise 
alone,  but  he  and  I  combined  our  forces,  and  he 
was  soon  on  his  feet,  and  he  led  the  way  with  feeble 
steps.  I  did  not  know  where  his  home  was,  but  he 
showed  me.  I  do  not  say  that  the  man  who  owned 
him  had  no  soul.  I  only  say  that  the  fact  of  the 
existence  of  his  soul  had  to  be  reached  by  an 
abstract  mental  process,  as  we  determine  the  exist- 
ence of  the  ultimate  atom. 

In  my  musings  I  everywhere  assume  the  intel- 
lectual and  moral  capacities  of  animals  below  men 
in  the  ascending  scale,  because  there  is  no  other 
way  of  accounting  for  the  mental  and  moral  phe- 
nomena which  they  exhibit.  I  purpose  here  to 
exhibit  a  few  philosophical  considerations  and  facts 
in  justification  of  the  view. 

The  first  consideration  which  I  will  offer  is  this, 
that  the  Creator  adheres  to  simple,  but  great  prac- 
tical ideas,  each  one  of  which  is  extended  to  every 


Nature  s  Intelligence  loi 

kind  of  his  work,  in  all  the  departments  of  exist- 
ence. Take  the  simple  idea  of  the  vertebra  in  the 
construction  of  animals.  It  was  brought  in  at  an 
appropriate  stage  of  the  development  of  life,  and 
thereafter  employed  in  every  one  of  the  infinite 
varieties  of  the  higher  forms.  In  physics  it  is  now 
believed  by  all  the  authorities  that  every  kind  of 
energy  is  the  manifestation  of  but  a  single  and 
simple  force,  which  is  transformed  by  the  exigen- 
cies of  its  work  into  heat,  light,  electricity,  chemical 
affinity,  adhesion,  gravitation,  motion,  and  what- 
ever other  manifestations  there  may  be.  Back  of 
this  is  a  very  simple  law  or  motive,  which  the  old 
Greeks  gave,  and  I  am  not  sure  mistakenly,  a  men- 
tal and  moral  character  when  they  said  that  "Nature 
abhors  a  vacuum. "  This  motive  is  a  determination 
to  compel  all  forces  into  equilibrium.  That  is  a 
very  simple  idea,  and  yet  how  sublime  in  its  magni- 
tude, omnipotent  in  its  effects,  and  omnipresent  in 
its  operations!  It  rules  with  equal  energy  all  spirit- 
ual existences,  from  the  lowest  up  to  the  Creator 
himself.  It  drives  the  sun's  rays  out  into  space, 
lashes  the  storms  forward  in  their  headlong  career, 
causes  the  rivers  to  flow,  toils  at  leveling  the  mount- 
ains. It  projected  The  Interior  ovX  upon  the  literary 
and  religious  world.  The  editor  and  his  contribu- 
tors, having  evolved  ideas  in  their  minds,  were  irre- 
sistibly impelled  to  supply  the  vacuity  in  other 
minds  with  those  ideas,  and  to  exchange  them  for 
other  people's  ideas,  and  thus  equalize  the  general 


I02     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

intelligence.  Knowledge  rushes  out  to  fill  the 
empty  voids  of  ignorance  as  unfailingly  as  light  and 
heat  rush  to  fill  the  empty  voids  of  space,  and  in 
consequence  of  the  operation  of  the  same  law. 
This  it  is  which  inspires  the  orator,  drives  the  pen, 
the  press,  and  the  telegram  in  more  senses  than 
one.  The  village  gossip,  in  her  humble  way,  is 
charged  with  the  same  divine  energy.  What  she 
knows  she  must  tell  or  perish. 

In  the  field  of  morals,  the  action  of  this  law  is 
scarcely  less  vigorous.  Virtuous  men  will  make 
great  sacrifices  and  incur  great  toil  to  extend  the 
domain  of  morals.  In  the  spiritual  realm,  it  be- 
comes one  of  the  mightiest  incentives  that  stirs  the 
heart  of  man.  The  cross,  the  dungeon,  the  rack, 
the  stake,  cannot  hinder  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
from  extending  over  the  globe,  and  filling  the  earth 
level  with  righteousness  as  the  waters  fill  the  sea. 
We  may  say  that  the  shining  and  circling  universe 
came  into  existence  because  God  would  fill  empty 
space  with  his  embodied  thoughts.  Here,  then,  we 
find  a  universal  law  which  operates  with  equal 
energy  in  every  sphere  of  existence,  which  per- 
meates and  is  the  chief  characteristic  of  every  type 
and  form  of  life  and  activity — physical,  mental, 
moral,  and  spiritual.  If  we  affirm  the  existence  of 
such  an  elemental  force  as  the  spiritual,  we  must 
admit  that  it  has  this  same  permeating  and  diffusive 
motive,  and  that  it  will  enter  into  all  forms  and 
types   of   life  whatever.      Its   manifestation   every- 


Nature  s  Intelligence  103 

where  and  in  all  things  is  the  only  scientific  or  philo- 
sophical evidence  we  have  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  spirit. 

My  next  consideration,  therefore,  is  this:  That 
while  we  are  thus  able  to  trace  the  identity  of  a 
great  law  which  dominates  the  physical  universe, 
upward  until  it  is  lost  in  height  beyond  the  range 
of  our  intellectual  vision,  we  may  fairly  infer  that 
the  law  of  spiritual  life  is  equally  simple,  omnipo- 
tent, and  omnipresent,  reaching  through  all  grades 
and  forms  of  living  things,  even  to  the  sweet  flowers 
which  bloom  along  our  way.  In  attempting  to 
verify  this  view  by  an  appeal  to  facts,  I  should  sim- 
ply be  overwhelmed  by  their  number,  cogency,  and 
conclusiveness.  Indeed,  I  cannot  hope  to  adduce 
a  fresh  idea  or  argument  bearing  on  the  truth  that 
the  lower  animals  are  possessed  of  moral  as  well  as 
intellectual  faculties,  differing  from  man's,  not  in 
kind,  but  only  in  degree.  And  yet  I  can  scarcely 
hope  to  state  a  fresh  idea  in  a  topic  so  familiar  to 
thoughtful  and  observant  minds.  One  no  sooner 
■enters  this  field  than  he  finds  himself  in  the  midst 
of  intellectual  and  moral  phenomena  as  varied,  pro- 
fuse, and  beautiful  as  the  flowers  and  birds  in  a 
tropical  land.  And  yet,  as  I  have  intimated,  moral- 
ists, metaphysicians,  and  theologians  have  lived, 
and  yet  live,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  interest  and 
beauty,  blind  to  its  appeals  and  deaf  to  its  music. 
They  seem  to  fear  that  the  facts  might  in  some  way 
impeach  the  dignity  or  discredit  the  immortality  of 


104     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

man.  If  this  last,  then  they  are  endeavoring  to 
establish  the  hope  of  immortal  life  on  foundations 
that  will  not  sustain  it.  There  is  absolutely  no 
basis  for  such  a  hope  other  than  that  of  participa- 
tion in  the  divine  life  brought  to  light  by  Jesus 
Christ.  If  this  be  illusory,  then  Paul  well  exclaimed, 
"We  are  of  all  men  most  miserable."  The  fact 
that  it  has  pleased  God  to  endow  the  animals  below 
us  with  intellectual  and  moral  natures,  and  the 
pleasures  derived  from  them,  is  only  a  further  illus- 
tration of  his  all-embracing  benevolence. 

The  evidences  that  the  lower  animals  are  think- 
ers, that  they  are  endowed  with  intellectual  faculties, 
are  too  many  and  too  obvious  to  require  argument. 
Do  they  possess  moral  natures?  The  phenomena 
of  moral  existence  are  love,  benevolence,  gratitude, 
fidelity;  with  their  opposites — hatred,  revenge, 
cruelty,  malice,  and  such  complex  passions  as  grief, 
remorse,  shame,  hope,  and  despair.  Most  of  these 
phenomena  aire  as  obvious  to  the  casual  observer  in 
the  lower  animals  as  they  are  in  man;  while  all  are 
perceived  by  those  who  are  more  interested  in  the 
study  of  the  habits  and  characters  of  our  humble 
friends.  It  would  extend  this  paper  beyond  the 
brief  limits  intended  to  cite  and  describe  specific 
illustrations;  nor,  as  I  have  said,  is  it  necessary. 
Personal  observations  have  found  their  way  into 
literature  until  they  have  become  the  most  plentiful 
as  well  as  the  most  pleasing  illustrations  of  a  topic 
in  which  every  reader  takes  great  interest.     Suffice 


Nature  s  Intelligence  105 

it  to  refer,  in  a  general  way,  to  the  unmistakable 
indications  of  a  sense  of  guilt  and  shame;  of 
forbearance  and  magnanimity;  of  chivalrous  de- 
fense of  the  weak;  of  generosity  to  each  other 
and  to  man;  of  integrity  in  the  discharge  of  their 
trusts;  to  their  long  remembrance  of  and  dispo- 
sition to  avenge  ill  treatment  which  they  have 
received,  and  to  reward  kindness  by  confidence, 
affection,  and  service;  their  grief  over  the  loss  of 
human  friends,  so  poignant  as  in  some  instances  to 
result  in  death ;  their  wailing  and  tears  on  the  death 
of  their  kindred;  their  pride,  love  of  admiration, 
delight  at  approbation  from  each  other  and  from 
man;  their  clear  ideas  of  a  right  of  property  in 
their  homes.  No  definition  of  moral  faculties  can 
be  framed  that  will  not  include  the  faculties  in  the 
lower  animals  which  manifest  themselves  in  such 
phenomena. 

The  moral  faculties  of  the  lower  animals  voice 
themselves  in  language  and  tones  as  nearly  identi- 
fied with  the  language  and  tones  of  man  as  the 
physical  conformation  of  the  organs  of  speech  will 
permit.  Anger,  defiance,  alarm,  fear,  affection, 
sorrow,  pain,  joy,  exultation,  triumph,  derision,  are 
heard  in  all  their  modulations  in  the  voices  and 
modes  of  expression  of  birds  and  quadrupeds;  lan- 
guage well  understood  by  man,  and  better  under- 
stood among  the  several  tribes,  each  of  which 
speaks  an  idiom  of  its  own. 

The  most  of  the  passions  and  emotions  named 


io6     M2isi7igs  by  Cainp-Fire  and  Wayside 

are  also  expressed  in  the  soft  beaming  or  the  flash 
of  the  eye,  the  pose  of  the  body,  the  exhibition  of 
weapons,  the  tremors  of  the  muscles,  the  lofty,  sup- 
pliant, or  shamed  carriage  of  the  head.  Indeed,  if 
we  indicate  an  emotion  and  its  expression  in  man, 
the  same  emotion  and  its  expression,  in  a  manner 
so  closely  resembling  that  of  man  as  to  be  instantly 
recognizable,  will  be  proved  in  all  the  species  of 
the  higher  vertebrates,  and  in  a  number  of  the 
insects,  such  as  bees  and  ants.  When  we  see  a 
dog,  himself  hungry,  carry  food  safely  to  his  mas- 
ter, or  die  bravely  in  that  master's  defense,  how 
shall  we  escape  the  conviction  that  noble  moral 
qualities  are  present  in  the  phenomena?  Indeed, 
the  companionship  and  mutual  esteem  between  man 
on  the  one  side,  and  the  dog,  horse,  or  elephant  on 
the  other,  can  only  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  of 
the  presence  of  a  moral  nature  in  each  in  sympathy 
with  that  of  the  other,  the  endowment  of  each 
differing  only  in  degree. 

We  have  thus  traced,  by  mere  mention,  the  ex- 
tension of  moral  existence  and  its  laws  down  through 
the  ranks  of  intelligences  to  the  animal  kingdom 
below  man,  and  find  them  everywhere  so  nearly 
identical  as  to  be  readily  recognizable.  Can  we 
find  indication  of  them  still  lower  in  the  vegetable 
kingdom?  Not  so  easily,  it  is  true,  and  yet  pos- 
sibly. The  flowers  at  our  feet  look  up  into  our 
faces  with  expressions  so  sweet  and  benign  that  our 
imaginations   will    persist  in    investing    them  with 


Nature  s  Intelligence  107 

spirits  kindred  to  our  own,  or  at  least  kindred  to 
the  sweetest  and  purest  of  those  whom  we  love. 
From  Lucretius  to  Wordsworth,  the  poets  have  ever 
been  the  avant-couriers  of  philosophy.  They  love 
Nature,  and  are  loved  by  Nature  in  return,  and 
there  are  secrets  whispered  in  this  intercourse  for 
which  colder  and  coarser,  though  stronger,  minds 
must  toilfully  labor  in  the  mines  of  thought. 

The  intelligence  and  morality  of  which  I  think 
traces  may  be  found  in  the  vegetable  kingdom, 
while  sufficient  for  the  purposes  for  which  they  were 
bestowed,  are  not  only  limited  in  degree,  but 
limited  in  their  functions.  All  that  is  claimed  is, 
that  some  elements  existing  in  the  higher  are  found 
in  the  lower  forms  of  life.  It  would  not  do  to  say 
that  a  pyrite,  an  oxide,  and  a  carbonate  of  iron  are 
identical.  The  one  is  a  tawny  stone,  the  other  a 
red  dust,  and  the  third  a  polished,  lithe,  glittering 
sword-blade.  And  I  would  compare  the  morality 
and  intelligence  of  spiritual  beings  above  man  to 
the  sunbeams  which  bear  in  themselves  intelligence 
of  iron  incandescent  in  the  sun;  the  same  entities 
in  man  to  the  sword-blade;  in  animals  to  the  pyrite; 
and  in  the  vegetable  kingdom  to  the  red  dust;  but 
down  through  all  runs  the  same  essential  idea,  the 
same  basis — iron.  In  like  manner  I  would  say  that 
spirit,  the  essential  basis  of  the  spiritual  realm, 
runs  down  through  all  forms  of  life  to  the  lowest, 
manifesting  everywhere,  in  some  way,  its  attributes 
of  intelligence  and  morality. 


io8     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  mid  Wayside 

The  contest  between  materialism  and  spiritual- 
ism has  been  narrowed  down  to  the  question  whether 
the  combination  and  interaction  of  material  forces 
produce  the  phenomena  of  mind,  or  whether  mind 
co-ordinates  both  matter  and  its  forces  and  laws  to 
its  own  service  in  building  up  and  sustaining  the 
soul's  material  habitation.  It  is  impossible  for  us 
to  sustain  our  positions  against  materialism  unless 
we  are  prepared  to  prove  that  something  of  the 
same  nature  as  the  soul,  and  which  exercises  some 
of  the  soul's  functions,  dwells  in  the  plant's  beauty 
and  activity.  The  phenomena  are  all  on  our  side 
of  the  question.  Two  wild  grape-vines,  planted 
at  short  distances  from  and  on  opposite  sides  of  a 
tree,  will,  each  moving  in  opposite  directions,  make 
straight  for  the  tree.  The  sunflower  will  gaze  at 
the  sun  all  day,  and  turn  its  face  eastward  in  the 
night  to  catch  the  first  beams  of  sunrise.  The  vine 
will  throw  its  tendrils  straight  out,  and  when  a  sup- 
port is  reached  it  will  seize  upon  it.  The  elm  sends 
its  roots  toward  the  watercourse.  The  sensitive 
plant  takes  alarm  and  pretends  to  be  dead.  Car- 
nivorous plants  show  quite  as  much  intelligence  as 
the  lower  orders  of  carnivorous  animals.  The  dis- 
tance, indeed,  between  vegetables  and  the  lower 
animals  in  the  degrees  of  intelligence  is  not  greater 
than  between  the  lower  animals  and  man,  or  be- 
tween man  and  the  probable  intelligence  of  the 
order  of  beings  next  higher  above  him.  I  never 
take  the  life  of  a  flower  without  feeling  that  it  is  a 


Nature  s  Intellzge?ice  109 

violation  of  moral  right,  unless  the  act  is  justified, 
as  in  the  taking  of  the  life  of  an  animal  for  use,  or 
because  the  plant  destroyed  is  hurtful  to  the  inter- 
ests of  the  lower  animals  or  of  man.  That  plants 
find  pleasure  in  existence  is  as  obvious  as  that  ani- 
mals do.  That  the  sensitive  plant  has  a  nervous 
system,  and  that  carnivorous  plants  take  pleasure 
in  food,  goes  without  question.  Thus  much  briefly 
in  regard  to  the  intelligence  of  plants.  The  reader 
can  extend  the  illustrations  indefinitely. 

Traces  of  moral  character  are  not  less  recogniz- 
able. But  we  must  remember  that  to  identify  vege- 
table morality  we  must  not  require  of  it  all  the 
qualities  of  morality  in  man.  Because  red  colored 
clay,  tinted  with  iron  oxide,  is  not  a  polished  sword- 
blade  is  no  reason  why  we  should  deny  the  presence 
of  iron.  Let  us  analyze,  ethically,  any  beautiful 
fiower.  We  find  first  a  gentle,  candid,  innocent 
aspect,  which  reaches  quite  beyond  our  sense  of 
physical  harmony  and  stirs  the  sense  of  moral 
beauty.  How  is  that  fact  to  be  accounted  for? 
Next  we  find  the  plant  appealing  to  our  sense  of 
physical  beauty.  So  far  as  the  plant's  individual 
interests  are  to  be  conserved,  there  is  no  necessity 
for  this.  Its  immaculate  coloring,  tracery,  shad- 
ing, are  all  beyond  the  plant's  individual  necessities. 
A  rude  and  flashy  splotch  of  color  would  attract  the 
eyes  of  the  bees  and  butterflies  quite  as  well  as  all 
this  exquisite  beauty,  unless  we  suppose  an  aesthetic 
faculty  in  those  insects,  which  supposition,  while  it 


1 1  o     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

might  weaken  the  argument  for  the  existence  of 
morality  in  flowers,  would  by  so  much  strengthen 
the  argument  for  morality  in  the  bees.  But  as  the 
bees  have  sufficient  inducement  in  the  honey,  there 
is  no  necessity  for  this  array  of  beauty.  The 
beauty  of  the  flower  has  for  its  purpose  the  giving 
of  pleasure.  It  is  the  plant's  benevolence.  It  is 
an  act  of  love,  having  in  it  no  taint  of  self-interest. 
Will  is  shown  to  exist  in  plants  by  the  same  tests 
that  show  its  existence  in  the  lower  animals  or  in 
man. 

There  is  no  reason  why  the  Creator  should  not 
make  the  plant  a  center  of  moral  forces.  However 
limited,  meager,  or  inferior  they  may  be  in  degree 
and  manifestation,  it  is  an  organism,  perfect  in  its 
kind.  It  sleeps,  wakes,  labors,  rests,  seeks  its  food, 
and  performs  all  the  functions  of  individual  life. 

Mr.  R.  L.  Garner  has  recently  undertaken  to 
investigate  this  subject  by  scientific  methods. 
After  studying  domesticated  apes  for  some  years  he 
visited  Africa  and  remained  in  the  jungle  a  number 
of  months  to  study  the  originals.  The  following  is 
a  summary  of  his  conclusions: 

"Briefly  stated,  the  speech  of  monkeys  and  human 
speech  resemble  each  other  in  all  essential  points.  The 
speech  sounds  of  monkeys  are  voluntary,  deliberate,  and 
articulate.  They  are  addressed  to  others  with  the  evident 
purpose  of  being  understood.  The  speaker  shows  that  he 
is  conscious  of  the  meaning  he  desires  to  convey  through 
the  medium  of  speech.     He  waits  and  expects  a  reply.    If 


Nature  s  Intelligence 


it  is  not  given  the  sound  is  repeated.  The  speaker  usually 
looks  at  the  one  addressed.  Monkeys  do  not  habitually 
utter  these  sounds  when  alone.  They  understand  the  sounds 
made  by  others  of  their  own  kind.  They  understand  the 
sounds  when  made  by  a  human  being  or  a  phonograph. 
They  understand  the  sounds  without  the  aid  of  signs  or 
gestures.  They  interpret  the  same  sound  in  the  same  way 
at  all  times.  The  sounds  are  made  by  the  vocal  organs,  and 
are  modulated  by  the  teeth,  the  tongue,  the  palate,  and  the 
lips.  Their  speech  is  shaped  into  dialects,  and  the  higher 
forms  of  animals  have  higher  types  of  speech  than  the 
lower  ones.  The  higher  types  are  slightly  more  complex, 
and  somewhat  more  exact  in  meaning  than  the  lower  ones." 

Mr.  Garner  lived  for  three  months  in  a  cage  in  a 
jungle,  hoping  to  get  closer  observation  of  the 
chimpanzees.  He  learned  that  they  are  nomadic, 
sleeping  on  the  ground,  and  not  two  nights  in  the 
same  place;  that  the  family  consists  of  one  male 
and  several  females;  that  the  male  exercises  author- 
ity; that  the  young  remain  in  the  family  till  mature; 
that  different  families  assemble  and  engage  in  some- 
thing corresponding  to  dancing,  while  one  of  them 
beats  on  a  drum — sort  of  a  drum — made  by  spread- 
ing clay  on  porous  earth  and  allowing  it  to  dry. 
He  tested  their  ability  to  count,  and  found  that  it 
reached  at  least  four,  which  we  may  remark  is  equal 
to  the  Australians.  He  makes  no  extravagant 
claims.  The  total  number  of  words  used  by  them 
that  he  acquired  was  about  one  hundred;  of  these 
he  learned  the  meaning  of  thirty.  He  demonstrated 
that  they  can  acquire  new  speech  sounds.      He  gives 


1 1 2     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

some  examples  of  their  reasoning  out  and  solving 
problems.  There  are  touching  instances  of  sym- 
pathy and  affection  recorded  in  the  book.  The 
advent  of  the  white  man  has  started  a  war  upon 
them  by  the  natives,  which  will  result  in  their  ex- 
tinction. The  white  man  offers  large  pay  for 
"specimens,"  which  leads  the  natives  to  hunt  and 
kill  them.  Mr.  Garner  has  therefore  not  entered 
upon  an  investigation  of  this  subject  any  too  soon. 
He  regards  his  work  so  far  as  preliminary. 

Recognition  of  the  facts  in  regard  to  the  minds 
and  sensibilities  of  the  lower  animals  is  necessary 
to  enlightened  morality,  even  if  we  take  only  the 
selfish  view  of  its  effect  upon  men's  conduct  in  deal- 
ing with  each  other.  The  old  apothegm  that  a 
merciful  man  is  merciful  to  his  beast  is  a  principle 
of  general  application.  It  applies  to  the  whole 
code.  The  teaching  of  metaphysical  theorists  and 
dogmaticians  is  responsible  for  no  end  of  cruelty  to 
beings  which  are  subject  not  only  to  physical  pain, 
but  to  all  the  varieties  of  mental  suffering  of  which 
man  is  capable.  They  die  of  homesickness.  They 
experience  depression  and  despair.  They  find  exit 
from  an  intolerable  life  by  suicide.  They  have  a 
keen  sense  of  wrong  done  to  them,  and  some  of 
them  seek  satisfaction  in  revenge.  They  are  pos- 
sessed of  domestic  virtues,  and  of  affection  for  each 
other  and  for  their  young,  and  where  they  are  gre- 
garious, a  patriotism  for  their  tribe. 

The  war   upon   the  wild    birds  and  animals  is 


Nature  s  Intelligence  1 1 3 

rapidly  driving  them  out  of  existence  as  species, 
and  thus  the  larger  part  of  the  beauty  and  attract- 
iveness of  the  world  is  wantonly  destroyed.  There 
is  no  basis  in  morals,  no  appeal  to  the  better  senti- 
ments of  mankind  left,  if  we  deny  that  the  lower 
animals  have  moral  rights.  If  they  are  not  exter- 
minated it  will  be  because  good  men  and  women 
will  be  found  willing  to  inform  themselves  of  the 
facts,  and  who  will  stand  up  for  the  defenseless 
creatures  as  witnesses,  and  as  advocates  and  cham- 
pions, and  who  will  employ  the  moral  principles 
brought  into  exercise  in  our  relations  with  them,  in 
training  up  the  boys  and  girls  to  manhood  and 
womanhood  of  noble  and  beautiful  character. 

Have  I  succeeded  in  establishing  the  claims  of 
my  beloved  companions  and  friends  to  a  hearing? 
Let  the  reader  learn  their  language  and  cultivate 
their  acquaintance.  Their  thoughts  will  be  found 
sweet  as  their  perfumes;  their  teachings  as  beauti- 
ful as  their  colors;  their  companionship  soothing 
and  cheering  as  exquisite  music. 

"  Farewell,  farewell,  but  this  I  tell 

To  thee,  thou  wedding  guest; 
He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 

Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 
He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  Lord,  who  loveth  us. 

He  made  and  loveth  all." 


Refreshing  Rain 


I  WAS  standing  on  the  broad,  red-sandstone  steps 
of  a  Chicago  residence,  waiting  the  answer  to 
the  bell,  when  a  shower  of  rain  began  to  fall. 
Each  drop  made  a  crimson  mark  on  the  stone,  and  it 
was  surprising  how  evenly  they  fell.  First  the  stone 
was  dotted  over,  all  parts  alike.  Then  drops  struck 
in  between  where  the  others  had  fallen,  and  so  on 
till  every  part  of  the  stone  had  been  touched.  The 
work  was  beautifully  done,  and  so  softly  and  gently! 
Every  upturned  cup  of  bloom,  and  every  blade  of 
grass  on  the  lawn  had  received  its  share,  and  all 
were  refreshed.  It  is  a  study  to  know  how  this  is 
accomplished.  The  source  of  rain  is  air  full  of 
moisture.  The  atmosphere  does  not  fill  up  and 
overflow,  like  a  cup  set  under  a  little  waterfall, 
but  when  it  has  absorbed  all  the  water  it  will  hold, 
it  refuses  to  take  any  more,  retains  what  it  has,  and 
floats  away  with  its  burden.  Like  the  honey-bee 
which  takes  as  much  of  honey  in  his  pouch,  and  as 
much  wax  on  his  pack-saddle  legs  as  he  can  carry, 
and  no  more,  so  the  loaded  atmosphere,  when  it 
has  enough,  starts  off,  looking  for  an  arid  field 
which  lies  waiting — its  parched  lips  open,  longing 
for  the  rain-cloud  to  give  it  a  drink.  The  water- 
114 


Refreshing  Rain  1 1 5 


drops  are  squeezed  out  of  the  humid  air  by  a  cold 
current.  The  water-bearing  air  rises  because  it  is 
warm.  The  icy  air  from  the  high  altitudes  descends 
to  take  its  place;  the  two  meet  and  interpenetrate, 
and  there  is  a  rain — a  gentle,  even  rain,  or  a  down- 
pour, depending  on  the  coldness  of  the  descending, 
and  the  humidity  of  the  ascending  currents.  When 
the  humid  air  rises  very  high,  its  moisture  is  con- 
verted into  snow,  and  if  it  be  dense,  the  snow- 
flakes,  as  they  fall,  gather  others,  and  when  they 
reach  the  lower  stratum  of  rain-pouring  mist,  they 
become  filled  with  it,  congeal  it,  and  come  swiftly 
to  the  earth  as  hail.  But  in  the  summer-time, 
especially,  the  cold  and  warm  currents  often  meet 
on  a  level,  and  then  there  is  a  slender  cataract  along 
the  line  of  contact,  which  moves  forward  against 
the  current  of  cold  air,  or  goes  the  other  way 
against  the  current  of  humid  air — depending  upon 
which  blows  the  stronger.  This  is  our  passing 
summer  shower,  and  when  the  line  of  contact  is 
directly  overhead  we  are  in  the  heaviest  part  of  the 
rain.  But  sometimes,  though  rarely,  an  ascending 
column  of  fully  ladened  air  is  caught  between  two 
or  more  currents  of  cold  wind  coming  from  various 
directions  to  fill  the  vacuum.  They  crowd  in  upon 
it,  drive  it  upward  till  it  extends  like  a  huge  pillar 
black  and  high,  and,  in  their  conflict,  set  it  to  whirl- 
ing like  a  spindle.  If  this  conflict  take  place  near 
the  surface,  we  have  a  whirlwind,  and  if  it  be  very 
strong  we  call  it  a  cyclone.     But  if  it  occur  above 


ii6     Musmgs  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

the  surface,  then  the  whole  content  of  the  tall  pillar 
of  water-laden  air  is  precipitated  upon  a  small  area 
of  the  earth,  and  it  is  called  a  "cloud-burst"  or  a 
"water-spout."  The  rain,  which  was  intended  for 
hundreds  of  square  miles,  may  come  down  upon  a 
few  acres,  and  in  a  very  short  time.  From  what  is 
known  of  the  storm  which  preceded  the  Conemaugh 
disaster,  it  is  probable  that  such  a  cataract  fell  in 
the  valley  above  the  fateful  lake.  If  the  sky  cloud 
over  evenly  and  gradually,  then  we  may  know  that 
the  cold  air  of  the  higher  altitudes  is  slowly  perco- 
lating the  humid  air  below.  If  a  long  sheet  of 
shower  drift  over  the  landscape,  then  we  may  know 
that  the  two  currents  have  met  on  a  level  and  one 
is  pushing  the  other  before  it.  I  saw  a  very  inter- 
esting theory,  not  long  since,  to  account  for  the 
generation  of  electricity  in  a  rain-storm — to  the 
effect  that  it  came  of  the  dissolution  and  reunion 
of  the  component  elements  of  water.  I  do  not 
remember  how  the  writer  accounted  for  the  process. 
But  the  simpler  theory  is  sufficient.  The  heat  of  the 
warm  air  is  converted  into  electricity  by  the  friction 
of  the  contending  currents,  just  as  the  heat  of  the 
furnace  is  converted  into  electricity  by  friction  in 
the  "dynamo."  The  thunder-crashes  in  a  cyclone 
are  terrific — as  they  must  be  where  the  dynamo  is  a 
half  mile  in  diameter  and  two  or  three  miles  high, 
and  whirling  with  a  velocity  sufficient  to  pick  bowl- 
ders off  the  ground  and  toss  them  about  like  tennis- 
balls. 


Refreshing  Rain 


We  have  beautiful  rains  here  in  this  forest  coun- 
try—not  long  drizzles,  but  frequent,  sunny  showers. 
It  was  not  intended  that  people  should  be  injured 
by  a  wetting  in  a  summer  rain.  It  spoils  fine  bon- 
nets and  silk  hats,  and  starched  frills  and  collars, 
and  other  inventions  of  the  devil,  but  it  does  not 
hurt  flannels,  and  is  decidedly  good  for  the  human 
skin.  This  thing  of  making  a  dry-nurse  of  one's 
self  for  one's  self  is  a  miserably  poor  use  to  make 
of  life.  You  fine  city  people  are  composed  of  two 
classes.  Part  of  you  get  up  late,  mince  over  a  fine 
breakfast,  and  then  loll  around  and  watch  for  your 
favorite  ailments — and  dote  on  your  doctor.  I  am 
beginning  to  despise  doctors — not  the  country  doc- 
tor, be  he  in  country  or  city,  who  is  sent  for  only  in 
emergencies,  and  then  administers  remedies  which 
attend  strictly  to  business,  be  the  remedy  emetic, 
cathartic,  astringent,  or  emollient;  but  the  city 
fashionable  doctor — the  doctor  who  is  a  luxury,  not 
a  necessity.  It  may  be  said  that  the  doctor  is  not 
to  blame — that  he  only  meets  a  demand.  But  he 
encourages  and  helps  to  create  the  demand.  He 
pets  and  coddles  and  alarms  those  whose  only  ail- 
ments are  rich  diet  and  laziness,  combined  with  a 
craving  for  sympathy.  I  know  some  doctors  who 
will  not  have  anything  to  do  with  such  business — 
who  will  tell  the  patients  to  stop  their  medicine- 
swallowing,  and  give  some  attention  to  the  laws  of 
health. 

The  other  class  of  city  people  to  whom  I  am  by 


1 1 8     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

these  presents  preaching  includes  the  men  who  eat  a 
hasty  breakfast,  and  then  plunge  into  money-mak- 
ing— and  drag  their  employes  into  it  along  with 
them.  They  come  home  from  business  fagged  out. 
They  eat  and  sleep  and  go  back  to  the  everlasting 
money-getting  grind.  So  years  come  and  go — they 
get  money,  build  fine  houses,  get  more  money,  grow 
sickly,  or  old,  and  die.  What  good  is  there  in  it? 
Their  young  people  never  have  any  real  young  life. 
They  cram,  cram,  cram  their  poor  heads  with  edu- 
cation. It  is  day  school  and  Sunday  school  and 
high  school  and  college  and  reading  and  preaching 
till  they  are  old  enough  to  marry,  then  they  marry 
because  that  is  a  part  of  the  business  of  life,  and  go 
on  getting  money. 

Now  I  have  no  money  to  speak  of — never  had — 
I  have  had  to  work  hard,  and  yet  have  had  a  very 
happy  life;  and  I  will  venture  to  say  that  I  now  get 
more  pleasure  out  of  the  little  wages  which  my 
readers  of  The  Interior  pay  me  for  writing  for  them, 
than  any  rich  man  in  the  city  gets  out  of  his  tens  of 
thousands  or  millions.  It  is  not  in  the  way  of  so- 
ciability, though.  There  is  none  of  the  genuine 
article  there — no  time  for  it.  I  would  as  soon 
expect  to  go  to  Jeremiah's  valley  of  dry  bones  and 
sit  down  on  a  pile  of  skulls,  and  have  a  sociable 
time  with  the  osseous  remains  of  the  dead,  as  to 
expect  it  in  Chicago.  A  happy  life  is  to  be  had  by 
making  rational  enjoyment  one  of  the  objects  of 
life.     And  that  is  not  in  money-getting.     It  is  not 


Refreshing  Rain  1 1 9 

in  fashion  or  display.  It  is  in  trying  to  make  one's 
self  and  others  happy.  I  go  fishing  and  camping 
and  strolling — and  do  not  care  a  continental  either 
for  wealth,  or  for  wealthy  people  because  they  are 
wealthy.  I  wear  loose  and  comfortable  clothes, 
take  plenty  of  exercise,  refuse  to  let  my  mind  dwell 
on  unpleasant  things,  never  worry  about  lost  oppor- 
tunities or  money  losses,  keep  out  of  the  way  of 
cranks  and  quarrelsome  people,  and  try  to  see  the 
bright  or  the  humorous  side  of  things,  cultivate  love 
for  my  kindred,  and  crack  my  little  chestnut  of  a 
joke.  I  never  read  any  of  the  crimes  or  scandal 
columns  of  the  dailies,  choose  cheerful  books,  and 
get  out  of  the  way  of  whiners  and  growlers  and 
scandal-mongers.  One  can  have  a  happy  life — 
happy  as  the  day  is  long,  by  making  happiness  one 
of  the  main  purposes  of  living.  The  foundation  of 
this  is  good  health — and  anybody  can  have  good 
health  by  starting  out  in  time  for  it.  It  is  to  be 
had  by  the  moderate  eating  of  simple  and  whole- 
some food,  which  soon  becomes  a  luxury  to  the 
palate;  a  clean  skin;  out-door  exercise  everyday, 
without  regard  to  the  weather,  except  in  the  way  of 
warm  and  dry  clothing;  keeping  the  mind  cheerful- 
keeping  the  heart  kindly;  avoiding  anxiety  and 
longing  about  business  affairs,  contentment  with 
one's  lot. 

It  is  orthodox  theology  to  say  that  what  God 
seeks  for  his  creatures  is  holiness,  not  happiness — 
that  holiness  is  not  a  means,  but  an  end — that  it  is 


I20     Musings  by  Cainp-Fire  and  Wayside 

to  be  sought  for  itself,  not  for  any  of  its  adjuncts 
or  consequences.  But  I  cannot  think  of  God  as  a 
being  of  one  idea.  He  is  holy  and  loves  holiness, 
but  he  is  also  benevolent  and  delights  in  joy-giving. 
When  two  things  are  as  inseparably  interlaced  and 
interdependent  as  holiness  and  happiness,  and  when 
God  is  equally  holy  and  loving,  I  see  no  extra 
orthodoxy  in  metaphysically  separating  the  practi- 
cally inseparable,  and  in  putting  one  before  the 
other — much  less  in  saying  that  God  is  devoted  to 
the  one  and  indifferent  to  the  other.  It  is  not  good 
Scripture  and  it  is  poor  philosophy.  Indeed,  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  idea  of  the  divine  sovereignty 
received  a  false  coloring  from  taking  kingly  sover- 
eignty— which  everywhere  prevailed  on  the  earth 
in  the  times  when  the  doctrine  was  formulated — as 
its  type  and  illustration.  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
sought  his  own  glory  with  utter  indifference  to  the 
consequences  to  his  fellow-men.  He  was  a  Corsi- 
can  nobody.  His  object  was  to  concentrate  upon 
himself  the  effulgence  of  all  the  crowns  and  all  the 
power  of  Europe.  Napoleon  was  not  a  type  of 
God.  He  was  the  reverse  and  the  opposite  in  every 
particular.  The.  only  difference  which  need  here 
be  emphasized  is  in  regard  to  glory-seeking.  Napo- 
leon sought  to  bring  the  rays  of  glory  upon  himself, 
for  his  own  magnificent  illumination.  God  seeks 
to  extend  the  rays  of  his  glory  to  his  creatures. 
The  one  was  concentration,  the  other  is  its  exact 
opposite,   diffusion.     The  one  was  selfishness,  the 


Refreshing  Rain  1 2 1 

other  is  beneficence.  The  idea  is  absurd,  anyway. 
How  could  God,  the  fountain  of  all  that  is  good 
and  lovely  and  splendid,  increase  his  own  personal 
glory?  He  cannot  tolerate  rebellion,  nor  suffer 
contumely  to  be  heaped  upon  his  name  and  his 
providences,  because  hatred  of  God  constitutes  the 
essence  of  sin,  and  sin  is  destructive  of  all  that  is 
good  and  beautiful  and  desirable. 

I  wonder  what  a  learned  theologian  would  call 
this  line  of  thinking?  Some  one,  possibly  many, 
have  been  over  it  before,  and  it,  or  something  re- 
sembling it,  has  been  named  after  one  of  them.  A 
man  cannot  follow  any  line  of  religious  thought 
now  without  finding,  if  he  inquire,  that  he  is  only 
following  after  a  procession  who  have  beaten  the 
path  dusty  and  trodden  out  all  the  fresh  grass  and 
flowers  that  may  ever  have  grown  on  it. 

But  I  was  speaking  of  our  beautiful  and  refresh- 
ing rains.  I  can  remember  when  they  were  as 
timely  and  abundant  in  southern  Ohio  and  Ken- 
tucky, and  all  that  region.  The  forest  streams 
were  as  full  and  cool,  and  the  growing  seasons 
always  fresh  and  verdant.  Now  they  are  either 
flooded  or  parched — flooded  at  times,  destructively 
in  the  early  spring,  when  much  rain  is  not  needed, 
and  parched  the  rest  of  the  growing  season.  Well, 
men  deserve  it,  and  they  have  not  begun  to  have 
the  worst  of  it.  Within  a  period  of  fifty  years  they 
have  destroyed  all  the  trees,  and  they  may  take  the 
consequences;    for  rain  and  trees  are  inseparable 


12  2     Mzisings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

friends.  You  can  have  neither  without  the  other. 
France,  Ireland,  Great  Britain,  and  the  Scandi- 
navian peninsula  are  exceptions,  because  they  have 
westerly  winds  off  three  thousand  miles  of  evapo- 
rating surface,  part  of  it  the  Gulf  Stream.  But  we 
cannot  have  it  in  the  Mississippi  Valley  without 
forests.  The  people  of  Nebraska,  finding  a  treeless 
region,  are  the  best  tree-planters  in  America,  and 
already  they  are  having  more  abundant  as  well  as 
more  seasonable  rains. 

The  mosquitoes  are  an  object  of  unusual  vindic- 
tiveness;  but  I  have  been  studying  their  habits,  and 
must  say  that  ours  improve  on  acquaintance.  They 
are  regular  and  temperate  in  their  habits.  During 
the  day  they  sleep  in  various  sheltered  nooks 
among  the  leaves  and  grasses.  At  sunset  they  go 
out  for  supper,  and  retire  at  nine  o'clock.  Just  at 
daylight  they  present  their  bills  of  fare  again.  But 
the  conditions  for  mosquito  good  morals  are  favor- 
able here.  Our  island  is  high,  long,  and  windy; 
almost  always  a  good  stiff  breeze  blowing.  When 
the  mosquitoes  essay  to  take  a  vestal  or  matutinal 
flight,  the  wind  carries  them  into  the  lake,  and 
there  the  festal  minnow  awaits  them  expectantly. 
The  minnow  grows  to  be  a  fine  bass,  and  then  we 
eat  him.  It  is  thus  that  poetic  justice  comes  to  the 
sanguinary  insect.  But  his  life  is  short.  By  the 
middle  of  July  only  a  few  feeble,  discouraged  strag- 
glers remain.     He  has  not  at   any  time  been  as 


Refresh  mg  Ra  in  \  2  3 

pertinacious  here  as  where  we  left  him  in  the  suburbs 
of  Chicago. 

I  have  thus  far  hauled  and  distributed  over  two 
hundred  fine,  large  bass.  How  is  that,  ye  pulpit- 
worn  and  fagged  preachers?  Don't  you  wish  you 
had  been  along?  Are  you  not  sorry  that  you  were 
not  called  to  be  a  poor  old  pious  printer? 


This  Paradise  of  Ours 


WE  had  a  dish  of  red  raspberries  found 
growing  wild  on  this  sand,  but  as  close 
to  the  margin  of  the  lake  as  they  could 
get  without  danger  of  drowning  in  a  rainy  year.  This 
brought  up  around  the  camp-fire  the  subject  of  wild 
native  fruits  in  America,  and  the  bill  of  fare  which 
nature  had  filled  before  the  white  man  came  was 
found  to  be  varied  and  inviting.  Of  nuts,  the  largest 
and  most  abundant  in  the  region  between  the  lakes 
and  the  south  line  of  Tennessee,  was  the  black  wal- 
nut. This  was  the  fruit  of  one  of  the  noblest  and 
most  valuable  of  American  trees.  I  have  seen  them 
towering  up  to  a  height  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
— straight,  massive,  and  majestic,  and  then  reaching 
their  giant  limbs  out  above  the  great  oaks  and  maples. 
Their  value  was  not  then  known.  They  fell  vic- 
tims to  the  ignoble  purpose  of  the  zigzag  fence. 
The  Britannica  and  other  English  books  speak  dis- 
paragingly of  the  walnut  itself  as  unfit  to  eat — which 
shows  that  none  of  them  had  ever  tasted  a  fresh 
one.  The  walnut  soon  becomes  rancid,  if  exposed 
to  dry  warmth.  The  nut  is  at  its  best  as  soon  as  it 
is  dry,  after  removing  the  thick,  bitter,  protecting 
hull.  I  have  never  known  any  one  who  did  not 
124 


This  Paradise  of  Ours  1 2  5 

relish  the  flavor  of  a  fresh  walnut.  We  used  to 
keep  them  sweet  by  leaving  them  in  their  hulls, 
piled  away  in  a  fence  corner,  and  taking  them  out 
and  drying  them  as  they  were  wanted.  They  will 
thus  keep  perfectly  fresh  all  winter.  By  the  time 
they  were  hulled,  dried,  shipped  to  England,  and 
had  lain  around  a  month  or  two  in  a  fruit  store  or 
grocery,  they  would  be  just  a  little  worse  than 
creamery  butter  if  it  were  treated  in  the  same  way. 
The  black-walnut  crop  used  to  be  unfailing  and 
enormous,  and  as  an  article  of  food  they  were  equal 
to  any  other  for  the  supply  of  carbon.  They  were 
capable  of  a  variety  of  uses  in  baking  and  other 
cooking,  for  flavor  and  enrichment.  The  white 
walnut  or  butternut  had  a  different  but  very  agree- 
able flavor.  The  hickory-nut  was  also  very  abun- 
dant— and  preferable,  as  being  neater  and  sweeter. 
They  were  in  variety.  Large  and  strong-shelled, 
smaller,  and  smaller  till  we  came  to  the  little  white- 
shell,  which  we  could  crack  with  our  strong,  young 
teeth.  The  chestnut,  hazelnut,  and  chincopin  are 
species  of  the  same  genus — all  with  their  peculiar 
charms.  The  pecan,  which  is  very  abundant  farther 
south,  is  a  species  of  the  hickory-nut.  All  these 
varieties  are  still  employed  as  table  food.  In  the 
beech  forests  the  ground  was  brown  with  their 
sweet  and  nutritious  product — which  is  nearer  to  a 
cereal  than  to  a  nut — the  favorite  food  of  the  wild 
pigeon.  Nor  were  some  varieties  of  the  acorn  to 
be  despised.     The  line  of  fruits  was  more  extended 


126     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

and  varied.  At  the  top  was  the  Catawba  grape — 
having  no  superior  in  any  part  of  the  world.  The 
Isabella  came  next.  Then  followed  the  fox-grape 
and  the  small  "wild  grape."  This  last  is  eagerly 
sought  by  every  kind  of  fruit-eating  bird.  There 
is  no  more  agreeable  tart.  We  have  a  large  vine  at 
home,  and  if  we  want  any  grapes  have  to  take  them 
immature.  The  birds  congregate  from  all  parts  of 
the  village,  and  make  short  work  of  the  two  or  three 
bushels  the  vine  produces.  The  squirrels,  raccoons, 
opossums,  bears,  and  other  wild  animals  were 
equally  fond  of  them.  I  have  seen  a  vine  which  was 
five  inches  in  diameter  two  feet  above  the  roots, 
climbing  to  the  height  of  one  hundred  feet,  and 
hanging  a  giant  honey-locust  tree  blue  with  its 
drapery  of  clusters.  This  grape  mixed  with  the 
sweet  elderberry  made  a  royal  pie — the  sweet  of  the 
one  toning  up  the  acid  of  the  other  to  a  flavor  most 
delicious,  and  each  supplying  a  superabundance  of 
wine,  which  had  to  be  eaten  from  the  pie-dish  with 
a  spoon.  No  sugar  was  required.  No  fruit  is  more 
wholesome,  or  a  better  general  tonic.  Then  we 
had  wild  plums — superior  to  any  of  the  imported 
varieties;  mulberries,  sweet  but  not  very  digestible; 
blackberries  fully  ripe  and  properly  treated,  which 
make  the  most  delicious  pie  ever  eaten.  Those  we 
get  in  the  city  markets  are  not  fit  to  eat.  When 
unripe  the  core  is  hard  and  indigestible,  and  very 
irritating  to  the  stomach.  But  a  fully  ripe  black- 
berry— if  Adam  could  have  had  a  supply  of  them 


This  Paradise  of  Ours  127 

he  never  would  have  meddled  with  the  forbidden 
fruit.  They  were  very  abundant  when  there  was 
sufficient  rain.  Then  come  the  dewberry,  a  variety 
of  the  blackberry,  the  red  and  black  raspberry, 
strawberry,  gooseberry,  whortleberry,  sarvisberry, 
and  others,  among  them  the  hackberry.  It  seems 
strange  that  nobody  seems  to  know  about  this  last. 
It  is  the  fruit  of  a  large  tree  of  that  name.  The 
berry  is  about  the  size  of  swan-shot,  with  a  large 
seed  in  proportion  to  its  size,  and  a  thin  but  very 
sweet  pulp.  A  single  hackberry  does  not  amount 
to  anything.  The  way  to  eat  them  is  to  fill  the 
mouth  full,  and  then  attriturate  the  pulp.  The 
kernel  is  sweet,  but  its  shell  is  too  jagged,  when 
crushed,  for  human  eating.  Sheep,  pigs,  raccoons, 
and  other  animals  are  very  fond  of  them.  The 
largest  of  the  wild  fruits  was  the  paw-paw,  or  cus- 
tard-apple. Those  who  are  not  familiar  with  this 
fruit  do  not  like  it,  and  it  will  not  bear  marketing. 
To  be  at  their  best,  paw-paws  must  be  black-ripe. 
The  rank  pumpkiny  taste  is  then  gone,  and  a  mild, 
rich  flavor  abides,  which  is  agreeable  to  almost 
every  one.  As  a  food  they  are  both  nutritious  and 
healthful.  Some  varieties  hang  upon  the  stem  all 
winter  and  retain  their  sweetness.  The  bark  makes 
famous  whistles  and  specially  fine  whips.  We  used 
to  make  whips,  the  "snap"  of  which  could  be  heard 
a  mile,  and  would  echo  like  a  rifle-shot.  Then 
there  was  the  persimmon,  golden  and  sweet — a 
variety  of  the  plum — the  black-haw  and  red-haw, 


128     Musings  by  Camp-Fir e  and  Wayside 

the  former  especially  desirable,  which  are  species 
of  apples.  The  wild  cherry  was  sought  for  a  pur- 
pose now  considered  off  color.  When  the  whisky 
barrel  was  rolled  into  the  cellar,  enough  of  it  was 
drawn  off  to  allow  room  for  a  couple  of  gallons  of 
wild  cherries,  which  were  religiously  put  through 
the  bung-hole. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  I  heard  a  Presbyterian 
divine  say  that  pure  wines  were  not,  properly  speak- 
ing, an  intoxicating  liquor.  I  never  heard  the  sug- 
gestion before,  and  did  not  believe  it.  He  said 
there  was  a  chemical  combination  of  the  various 
elements  constituting  the  grape  which  neutralized 
the  alcoholic  elements,  and  left  it  harmless,  just  as 
prussic  acid,  the  deadliest  of  poisons,  is  one  of  the 
essential  elements  of  a  good  beefsteak.  But  when 
I  remember  the  quantities  of  cherry-bounce  drunk 
by  men  of  those  days,  who  lived  to  their  four-score, 
some  of  them  adding  the  ten  to  it,  I  have  wondered 
if  there  were  not  something  in  the  Doctor  of  Divin- 
ity's theory,  which  is  so  soothing  to  the  conscience 
of  the  wine-drinker.  For  the  present  I  must  hold 
on  to  the  old  theory  that  "wine  is  a  mocker." 

The  best  bread-food  growing  spontaneously  is 
the  wild  rice,  which  is  superior  for  soups  to  the 
cultivated  variety.  I  have  not  enumerated  all  the 
wild  nuts  and  fruits  which  were  so  abundant  in 
the  American  wilderness,  and  which  supported  a 
teeming  population  of  animal  life,  and  which  made 
the  living  of  the  red  men  so  easy  to  obtain.     There 


This  Paradise  of  Ours  129 

were  squirrels  by  the  million,  and  pigeons  by  the 
billion,  and  no  end  to  wild  turkeys,  partridges, 
quails,  ducks,  raccoons,  opossums,  bear,  deer,  elk, 
buffaloes,  and  the  rivers  were  teeming  with  fish.  I 
have  caught  bass  in  a  virgin  lake  as  fast  as  I  could 
throw  in  my  spoon  and  lift  them  out — and  this  was 
the  condition  of  all  lakes  and  rivers.  My  father 
was  a  skillful  turkey-hunter.  I  remember  one  win- 
ter when  we  grew  so  tired  of  them  that  my  mother 
asked  him  not  to  bring  home  any  more.  Others, 
when  they  came  on  the  trail  of  turkey,  would  pursue 
them,  but  the  bird,  like  other  hunted  animals,  keeps 
a  specially  sharp  lookout  backwards.  My  father 
went  on  horseback,  and  getting  the  general  direction 
a  flock  was  taking,  would  ride  around,  get  before 
them,  and  wait  for  them.  Buffalo  were  everywhere. 
Their  trails  were  like  broad  wagon-roads.  They 
beat  down  the  young  trees  and  made  meadows  for 
themselves  in  the  forests.  At  the  salt-licks  they 
crowded  and  trampled  each  other  to  death.  An 
old  hunter  said  he  had  known  deer  to  escape  the 
jam  by  leaping  up  and  running  upon  the  solid  mass 
of  buffalo  backs.  These  wild  animals  were  but 
little  shy  of  man.  The  Indian  was  not  dangerous 
to  them,  with  his  bow  and  arrows,  except  at  very 
close  range.  Until  the  white  man  came,  with  his 
iron  weapons  and  his  gunpowder,  the  bear  and  the 
panther,  the  bull  elk  and  moose  did  not  hesitate  to 
attack  him — the  latter  stupid  brute  has  scarcely 
yet  learned  that  he  is  no  match  for  a  rifleman.     The 


1 30     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

Indian  took  what  he  got  more  by  stealth  and  strata- 
gem than  by  force;  but  with  the  superabundance  of 
animal  life,  and  of  wild  fruits  and  nuts  and  grains, 
the  life  of  the  Indian  was  that  of  the  happy  and 
improvident  loafer,  who  had  no  need  to  care  for  the 
morrow.  It  is  one  of  the  most  striking  illustrations 
of  the  law  of  heredity  that  this  improvidence,  com- 
ing down  to  him  through  uncounted  generations, 
can  scarcely  be  eradicated.  Even  when  fire- 
arms came  into  his  hands  he  employed  them  in 
the  old  way,  and  used  so  little  powder  that  they 
were  not  much  more  effective  than  his  bow.  He 
stalked  his  game  until  he  could  burn  their  hair  with 
the  fire  of  his  gun.  Carr,  in  his  "Early  Times  in  the 
Middle  Tennessee,"  tells  an  anecdote  of  Kasper 
Mansker,  one  of  the  most  noted  of  the  early  hunt- 
ers of  that  region,  showing  how  he  took  advantage 
of  an  Indian  by  employing  his  knowledge  of  this 
habit.  His  red  foe  tried  to  call  him  out  into  the 
thickets  by  a  very  perfect  imitation  of  a  wild  gob- 
bler. Mansker  listened  until  he  was  satisfied  that 
the  call  was  not  genuine,  then  coolly  shouldering 
his  rifle  he  walked  past  the  Indian,  but  out  of  his 
short  range,  pretending  to  look  for  the  turkey,  and 
went  on  to  an  open  glade,  his  enemy  stealthily  fol- 
lowing him.  As  soon  as  Mansker  had  thus  lured 
his  enemy  away  from  the  trees,  he  suddenly  turned 
and  shot  him. 

Such  was  the  paradise  of  four  millions  of  square 
miles  which  the  white  man  found  between  the  crests 


This  Paradise  of  Ours  1 3 1 

of  the  eastern  and  the  western  mountains.  The 
Indian  had  been  in  it  before  him,  long  before  his 
ancestors  had  entered  Europe — for  the  red  man  was 
contemporary  with  the  extinct  mammoth.  The  ruin 
of  the  Indian  was  the  lap  of  luxury  in  which  he 
found  himself.  But  little  of  his  energy  was  re- 
quired to  clothe  himself  in  the  best  of  mantles — 
that  of  the  buffalo  hide.  He  did  not  scruple  to  sit 
at  the  second  table  of  the  panther,  and  skin  and  eat 
what  the  great  cat  had  slain.  His  forest  trees  and 
the  ground  were  covered  with  fruits  and  nuts  in 
wasting  profusion.  He  could  imitate  the  bear  by 
tossing  fish  out  of  the  stream  with  his  hands.  And 
so  needing  not  to  do  any  good  work  he  found  evil 
to  do,  and  waged  incessant  wars  of  extermination 
against  his  fellow-man.  He  turned  the  conditions 
which  would  have  given  a  teeming  population  and 
a  high  grade  of  civilization,  into  the  conditions  for 
paucity  and  savagery  of  human  life.  But  he  sought 
his  pleasure  in  things  most  congenial  to  him.  He 
fought  for  revenge  and  glory,  and  scalped  for 
trophies.  He  lived  for  the  present,  and  died  with 
unquailing  courage.  I  know  of  no  stoicism  in  his- 
tory so  near  to  the  sublime  as  the  conduct  of  Old 
Tassel  and  the  friendly  Cherokee  chiefs.  They 
had  been  invited  to  a  friendly  conference,  and 
seated  themselves  in  a  cabin.  Gilmore,  in  his 
"John  Sevier,"  describes  the  entering  into  this 
friendly  circle  of  the  leader  of  the  white  conspira- 
tors: 


132     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

Instantly  raising  the  tomahawk,  he  buried  it  in  the  brain 
of  the  nearest  Indian,  as  he  sat  on  the  ground  at  the 
extremity  of  the  half-circle  in  which  they  had  formed  them- 
selves. The  others,  seeing  from  this  the  fate  which  awaited 
them,  cast  their  eyes  to  the  ground,  and  without  a  word, 
bowed  their  heads  to  the  stroke  which  had  slaughtered 
their  comrade.  Thus  ingloriously  perished  the  peace-loving 
Rayetayah,  known  among  the  whites  as  Old  Tassel  —  and 
by  far  the  best  king  who,  within  historic  times,  had  ruled 
over  the  Cherokees. 

I  was  saying  the  Indian  lived  for  the  present,  and 
sought  his  pleasure  in  what  was  most  congenial  to 
him.  I  do  not  see  much  difference,  at  the  core, 
between  him  and  the  civilized  man.  The  latter 
stalks  his  victims  as  stealthily  as  the  red  warrior, 
and  he  scalps  and  fleeces  and  robs  and  carries  off 
the  plunder,  and  hangs  his  trophies  in  his  brown- 
stone  wigwam.  When  the  inevitable  hour  comes, 
the  red  man  shows  the  better  and  sublimer  stuff 
that  is  in  him.  He  meets  his  fate  with  unmoved 
countenance  and  unsinking  heart.  I  need  not 
describe  what  the  white  man  does.  Mortal  terror 
and  frantic  grasping  at  the  straws  of  possibili- 
ties for  escape  do  not  form  a  proper  scene  for 
derision. 

Did  any  of  the  earth's  rulers  have  a  retinue  of 
such  noble  servants?  Was  there  ever  a  living  equal 
to  that  of  my  star-spangled  pines?  Was  there  ever 
such  august  silence  in  the  circle  of  one's  compan- 
ions? And  then  I  think  that  this  is  the  ideal  life — 
that  there  is  no  life  of  such  calm  happiness  to  be 


This  Paradise  of  Ours  133 

found  in  the  world.  The  oppressor's  scorn,  the 
proud  man's  contumely,  the  fawning  sycophant — 
all  things  that  offend  are  far  away.  Could  I  know 
that  these  have  ceased  to  be,  then  this  would  be 
heaven.     And  so  will  heaven  be. 


apujsing  tl^e  Cletcnti^ 


Through  a  Forest 


I  DO  not  think  there  is  a  songster  that  for  deli- 
cacy, plaintiveness,  and  sweetness  of  note  com- 
pares with  the  white-throated  sparrow.  The 
first  time  I  heard  him  was  some  years  ago  in  the 
otherwise  utter  silence  of  a  dense  forest.  Before 
that  I  preferred  the  wood-thrush,  but  he  is  only  a 
clear,  strong  singer,  without  emotion  or  passion  in  his 
voice,  but  this  new  musician  appealed  to  the  heart. 
He  is  as  plaintive,  without  any  of  the  sadness  of 
the  dove.  He  sings  on  a  high  key,  calling  his  first 
note  the  lowest  of  the  octave,  the  four  notes  follow- 
ing are  on  the  sixth  above.  But  the  bird  is  both 
rare  and  shy,  and  I  was  not  aware  of  the  exquisite 
perfection  of  his  song  till  recently.  At  the  dis- 
tance at  which  he  is  usually  heard,  the  notes  are 
simple,  but  very  sweet.  As  I  was  sitting  silent  in 
my  canoe  a  few  days  ago,  one  flew  into  a  birch  over 
my  head  and  began  to  sing,  and  then  I  heard  the 
trill  of  each  of  his  higher  notes;  and  one  just  now 
regaled  me  with  a  song,  sitting  in  a  tree  above  my 
cabin.  It  is  not  a  mere  trill,  but  a  peculiarity  of 
the  trill  which  has  not,  I  think,  ever  been  intro- 
duced into  music.  It  is  perfectly  charming.  They 
are  not  visible  when  singing,  keeping  themselves 
134 


IRON      RIVER      T  RAI 


Through  a  Forest  135 

hidden  in  the  foliage.  The  songs  of  all  other  noted 
singers  are  thoughtless  triviality  compared  with 
that  of  this  yearning  and  yet  wonderfully  artistic 
sprite  of  the  northern  woods.  In  form  he  is  grace- 
ful, in  color  a  light  bluish  gray,  with  a  round  spot 
of  pure  white  about  as  large  as  a  dime,  on  the 
throat. 

I  heard  fawns  bleating  in  a  jack-pine  thicket  one 
of  the  few  hot  afternoons  that  we  had  in  July,  and 
the  next  day  took  Georgie,  hoping  to  drive  one  of 
them  into  a  lake  and  capture  it  for  a  pet,  but  the 
cunning  little  fellows  lay  close,  and  we  were  not  able 
to  start  them  out,  or  find  them. 

On  our  way  home  we  came  to  a  deep,  shady 
basin  with  a  plot  of  grass  in  it,  saw  a  large,  fresh 
bear  trail  with  water  splashed  upon  the  grass,  show- 
ing that  a  bear  had  just  run  out  from  wallowing  in 
the  water.  Then  the  white  muzzles  of  two  cubs 
came  up  out  of  the  grass,  and  we  both  started  for 
them,  Georgie  taking  one  and  I  one,  for  a  chase. 
We  shouted  at  our  best,  trying  to  frighten  them 
into  climbing  trees.  I  gained  on  mine  and  expected 
him  to  stop  and  get  up  and  fight,  but  he  got  into  a 
boggy  thicket  and  was  gone.  Georgie  had  on  shoes 
and  so  was  at  a  disadvantage.  When  the  chase 
was  over,  Georgie  bewailed  the  loss.  "It  is  too 
bad,  too  bad,"  said  he,  with  a  rueful  face.  "We 
could  'a'  got  twenty-five  dollars  for  them."  Then 
I  asked  if  we  had  caught  one,  what  the  old  bear, 
who  was  chucking  and  snorting  on  the  hill  above, 


136     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  arid  Wayside 

would  probably  have  had  to  say  about  it,  "The 
cub  would  have  squealed,  and  she'd  'a'  gone  for  us, 
sure,"  said  Georgie.  "But,"  I  said,  "we  have  no 
gun,  and  not  even  a  knife;  and  what  would  we  have 
done  then?"  "We'd  'a'  had  to  let  the  cubs  go  and 
climbed  trees  ourselves,"  said  Georgie.  But  "It  is 
too  bad,"  was  his  refrain,  "we'd  'a'  got  mebby 
twenty  dollars  apiece  for  them."  While  chasing 
the  cub,  which  was  large  enough  to  make  an  ugly 
fight  on  his  own  account,  I  did  not  think  of  the 
necessity  of  asking  leave  of  his  mother.  As  for 
themselves,  the  cubs  probably  thought  they  each 
knew  more  than  their  mother.  That  is  the  way 
with  cubs  in  these  times. 

I  feel  sorry  for  the  bears  this  year.  Last  year 
the  whole  country  was  covered  with  blackberries 
and  whortleberries.  (The  blackberry  gets  its  name 
from  its  color.  The  whortleberry,  a  different  va- 
riety of  the  same  species,  is  black  and  sweeter.) 
The  late  frost,  which  killed  the  first  planting  of 
our  garden,  killed  them  all,  so  that  the  bears  must 
live  by  rooting,  frogging,  and  fishing. 

The  isolated  lakes  in  this  region  have  been  a 
mystery  to  me,  and  I  find  no  adequate  explanation 
proposed  in  the  works  on  geology.  These  lakes 
are  all  essentially  alike — depressions  in  the  sand, 
without  visible  outlet  or  inlet — as  indeed  they  need 
none,  the  water  flowing  freely  through  the  hills  from 
one  to  the  other.  Wherever  a  depression  goes 
down  to  the  water  level  there  is  a  lake,  from  two 


Through  a  Forest  137 

feet  to  two  miles  in  diameter.  There  are  about 
fifty  of  them  within  the  range  of  my  excursions. 
Island  Lake  is  in  places  one  hundred  feet  deep,  or 
one  hundred  and  forty  feet  below  the  top  of  the 
island.  I  think  I  have  come  upon  the  process  of 
the  formation  of  these  bowls.  This  sand  is  rock 
ground  up  by  glacial  action  upon  a  rough,  moun- 
tainous country.  The  ice,  estimated  to  have  been 
from  one  to  two  thousand  feet  thick,  would  make 
for  itself  a  level  road-bed,  filling  the  depressions  in 
the  rocks  with  ice,  the  glacier  sliding  over  the  thus 
rock-locked  ice  masses.  Now  if  we  suppose  that 
this  lake  has,  by  the  action  of  wind-drifted  and  rain- 
washed  sand,  filled  up  one-half,  then  we  should 
have  the  original  depression  to  be  at  least  two  hun- 
dred and  forty  feet.  When  the  ice-sheet  slowly 
retreated  northward,  we  should  have  here  a  mass 
of  ice  reaching  that  depth  below  the  general  level, 
and  while  it  lasted,  prevented  the  water  from  filling 
with  silt  the  depression  which  it  occupied.  These 
rock-locked  masses  of  ice  would  be  the  last  to  melt, 
and  by  the  time  they  were  gone,  the  glacial  flood 
would  have  subsided,  leaving  the  further  modifica- 
tion of  the  surface  to  the  slow  action  of  wind,  rain, 
and  vegetation. 

The  nonchalance  of  wild  animals  on  their  escape 
from  danger  is  a  prominent  element  in  their  happi- 
ness. When  the  danger  is  past,  immediately  they 
give  themselves  no  more  concern  about  it.  We 
had  an  illustration  of  this  one  bright  moonlight 


138     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

night.  We  were  sitting  around  the  camp-fire  ready 
to  retire,  and  in  silence,  when  on  the  mainland  we 
heard  two  dashes  into  the  water,  one  quickly  follow- 
ing the  other,  and  in  a  moment  such  a  fierce  and 
angry  howling  of  wolves  as  we  have  seldom  heard. 
The  pack  had  been  in  chase  of  two  deer,  which  took 
to  the  lake,  and  the  hungry  wolves  were  giving 
voice  to  their  baffled  hunger  and  rage.  One  of  the 
deer  came  over  to  the  island  and  one  swam  across 
to  the  further  shore.  They  were  no  sooner  on  land 
again  than  they  quietly  began  feeding,  and  we  sat 
and  listened  for  an  hour  to  the  plash  of  their  feet 
as  they  waded  along  the  margins,  cropping  the 
succulent  shoots  and  lily-pads.  So  soon  as  they 
struck  water  their  danger  was  over,  and  they  gave 
it  no  further  thought.  A  human  being  in  such  peril 
would  have  brooded  over  it  for  hours,  and  have 
recalled  it  with  shuddering  for  years.  Any  one  can 
see  the  above  trait  on  approaching  a  bird's  nest.  The 
little  parents  are  in  great  distress  for  the  time,  but 
retire  beyond  their  view,  and  in  a  moment  they  are 
calm.  Only  men  and  women  brood  over  the  dis- 
tressful past,  or  look  forward  with  apprehension  to 
the  future.  They  cherish  the  memory  of  past 
pleasures  of  every  kind,  and  look  forward  with  such 
joyous  anticipations  as  to  exceed  in  the  pleasure  of 
anticipation  the  pleasure  of  the  reality,  if  happily 
the  reality  do  not  vanish  like  a  mirage  as  they 
approach  it.    If  they  have  more  pleasure,  they  have 


Throiigh  a  Forest  139 

also  more  pain — and  with  them  both  are  more 
enduring.  Where  little  is  given,  little  is  required. 
But  the  deer  are  in  this  wiser  than  we. 

The  whippoorwill  regales  us  every  evening  with 
his  call,  always  cheerful  because  of  its  vigor.  The 
nesting  habits  of  this  bird  are  peculiar.  I  do  not 
know  whether  the  female  changes  her  nest  before 
the  young  are  hatched — probably  she  does,  as  her 
large  mouth  is  adequate  to  picking  up  and  carrying 
off  her  eggs,  but  after  the  hatching  she  has  a  new 
nest  for  every  day,  at  least  if  disturbed,  though  she 
does  not  carry  her  young  very  far — a  few  rods 
usually.  She  places  them  under  a  sheltering  shrub, 
on  the  bare  ground,  and  when  once  they  are  found 
it  is  not  difficult  to  find  them  again.  They  grow 
very  rapidly,  and  are  gray-colored,  like  a  piece  of 
bark  or  a  last  year's  leaf,  and  show  no  signs  of  life 
when  picked  up  and  handled. 

An  orphan  wood-duck  offered  himself  for  adop- 
tion to  one  of  our  hens  which  had  chicks  about  his 
size.  She  looked  at  him  askance  at  first,  but  he 
got  under  her  wings,  and  soon  won  her  maternal 
regard.  He  could  not  run  as  fast  as  the  chicks, 
and  the  hen  would  wait  for  him  and  go  after  him. 
He  would  make  little  excursions  on  the  water,  and 
bade  fair  to  become  one  of  our  favorite  pets,  but 
he  disappeared  as  mysteriously  as  he  came.  The 
probability  is  that  his  mother  brought  him  to  the 
lake  in  the  vicinity  of  the  hen-coop,  where  he  went 


I40     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

astray  after  strange  gods,  and  that  she  found  him 
and  carried  him  off  on  her  back,  as  is  her  wont  with 
her  ducklings.  She  had  the  best  right  to  him,  and 
yet  we  were  sorry  to  give  him  up. 


MUSINGS  OF  THE  SOUTH 


JVayside  Musings 


SPEAKING  of  hospitality,  I  could  illustrate 
by  the  lovely  treatment  I  received  from 
Mrs.  Booker  T.  Washington,  at  Tuskegee; 
how  I  had  a  room  with  an  old-fashioned  fireplace, 
with  the  old-fashioned  dog-irons,  and  splendid  with 
the  flame  of  Alabama  pine;  how  when  I  came  from 
the  evening  meetings,  I  found  a  neat  tray  on  my 
writing-table,  garnished  with  a  glass  of  Jersey  milk 
and  slices  of  bread ;  how  I  was  awakened  in  the 
morning  by  the  snapping  and  the  indescribably  com- 
fortable sooing  of  the  hearth-fire.  The  priestess  of 
the  domestic  altar  had  sent  a  messenger  who  per- 
formed his  sacred  rite  and  retired  so  silently  that  I 
was  unconscious  of  his  presence.  When  I  opened 
my  eyes  upon  the  glory  that  filled  the  room  I  knew 
of  the  visitant  only  by  the  blessing  he  had  left,  as 
he  had  softly  closed  the  door  and  gone  away. 

And  now  I  write  beside  a  similar  hearth,  some 
forty  miles  from  Tuskegee,  in  the  heart  of  the 
"Black  Belt."  It  happened  in  this  way:  There  was 
a  fine-looking  and  gifted  young  minister  at  the  con- 
ference, the  Rev,  Charles  Morris.  A  pleasing  and 
well-educated  young  man.  Mr,  William  Benson  was 
persuading  Mr.  Morris  to  go  home  with  him.  They 
143 


144     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

spoke  of  the  road,  the  distance,  the  teams — some 
forty  miles  to  Kowaliga — of  the  conditions  of  the 
creeks — it  made  my  ears  tingle,  and  to  some  purpose, 
for  I  secured  an  invitation,  and  here  I  am,  pros- 
pecting for  gold,  and  for  literature.  Yesterday  we 
washed  gold  out  of  a  gully  with  an  ordinary  frying- 
pan,  and  found  quartz  with  the  metal  shining  in  it, 
I  will  reserve  Kowaliga  for  another  Musing,  and 
devote  this  to  Tuskegee. 

But  I  ought  to  speak  of  another  instance  of  hos- 
pitality. We  zigzagged  about  on  the  railways,  chang- 
ing cars  and  [roads  three  times  to  make  half  the 
distance  to  Kowaliga,  and  then  drove  eighteen  miles 
across  the  country  and  through  the  hills.  At  Talla- 
hassee, where  we  left  the  railroad,  Mr.  Key,  a  Bos- 
ton journalist,  and  myself  went  into  a  large  general 
store  to  ask  for  some  bread  and  cheese.  Mr.  Pat- 
terson, a  gentleman  of  means  and  culture,  after 
having  what  we  asked  for  sold  to  us,  took  us  into 
his  private  office,  and  with  his  own  hands,  toasted 
our  bread  and  cheese,  and  actually,  with  the  aid  of 
a  little  butter,  set  us  an  appetizing  luncn  on  his 
writing-table.  We  were  entire  strangers  to  Mr. 
Patterson.  It  was  an  act  of  practical  courtesy  and 
hospitality  that  was  unique.  How  many  men  are 
there  in  his  position  who  would  go  to  that  trouble 
for  strangers?  who  would  not  consider  it  beneath 
their  dignity?  There  is  a  sort  of  manliness  in  such 
virtues  which  pertains  to  the  soldier  or  explorer  or 
the  camper. 


Musings  of  the  South  145 

I  scarcely  know  how  to  handle  so  large  a  subject 
as  Tuskegee  in  brief  space.  Mr.  Booker  Washing- 
ton, now  the  most  celebrated  man  of  his  race,  was 
a  pupil  of  General  Armstrong  at  Hampton.  He 
found  his  way  to  the  little  village  of  Tuskegee — 
pronounced  Tus->^^-gy — as  a  teacher,  in  the  year 
1881.  Beginning  with  a  school  in  a  log  shanty,  he 
has  built  up  this  great  institution,  in  which  thirteen 
hundred  negro  boys  and  girls-,  young  men  and 
women,  are  taught.  The  property  consists  of  two 
thousand  three  hundred  acres  of  land,  and  twelve 
buildings,  the  largest  of  which,  the  auditorium, 
seats  two  thousand  five  hundred,  and  is  really  a 
solid  and  noble  building.  There  are  some  ninety 
teachers.  Tuskegee  is  chiefly  an  industrial  school. 
Mr.  Washington's  system  of  education  is  for  the 
colored  people  as  they  are.  Especial  attention 
is  given  to  farming,  stock-breeding,  fruit-raising, 
carpentry,  brick-making,  blacksmithing,  cooking, 
sewing — all  the  trades  which  pertain  to  or  aid  in 
agriculture.  Upon  this  solid,  practical  basis  is  built 
the  academic  instruction. 

This  conference  is  an  annual  convention  of  negro 
farmers,  who  impart  and  receive  the  benefits  of 
each  other's  experience,  and  discuss  questions  of 
interest  to  themselves  and  to  their  race.  The 
speeches  were  brief,  pointed,  emphatic,  and  enthu- 
siastic. Farming  in  this  section  of  the  country  is 
wasteful.  The  farmers  purchase  the  fertilizers  of 
commerce   instead   of   making   it   for   themselves. 


146     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

They  raise  cotton  and  buy  corn  and  pork.  Above 
all  the  things  that  curse  the  farmer  is  the  credit 
system.  I  notice  everywhere  that  a  discount  of 
from  fifty  to  two  hundred  per  cent  is  made  for  cash. 
They  mortgage  their  crops  for  the  year,  before  they 
are  planted,  the  result  of  all  of  which  is  miserable 
poverty.  The  cotton  states  can  never  be  anything 
else  but  poor  until  there  is  a  thorough  reformation 
of  farming  and  business  methods. 

Tuskegee  is  the  oracle  of  these  reforms  for  the 
negroes.  It  is  wonderful  to  see  how  keenly  the 
negro  farmers  are  interested,  and  to  notice  their 
pride  in  their  success.  Of  course  there  is  a  vast 
inert  mass  of  shiftlessness  and  stupidity  and  degra- 
dation. Bishop  Turner,  of  the  African  Methodist 
Church,  is  pessimistic.  He  sees  no  hope  for  the 
negro  in  America.  He  asserts  that  the  repressive 
legislation,  disfranchisement,  deprival  of  the  civil 
rights  guaranteed  by  the  constitution,  the  massa- 
cres and  lynching,  and  the  fact  that  the  negro  has 
but  little  or  no  protection  under  the  laws  in  many 
localities,  leaves  him  in  a  worse  condition  than  he 
was  in  slavery,  and  he  advocates  what  he  calls 
"repatriation,"  but  which  is  really  expatriation — 
the  return  of  the  negroes  to  Africa;  and  he  argues 
that  it  is  practicable  to  carry  over  five  or  six  mil- 
lions of  them.  The  bishop  is  bitter,  as  I  notice 
that  our  Dr.  Grimke  of  Washington  is.  But  the 
sentiments  of  Tuskegee  are  most  conciliatory. 
Booker  Washington  is  the  second  great  emancipa- 


Musings  of  the  South  147 

tor.  He  believes  that  the  way  to  liberation  from 
present  oppression  is  through  virtue  and  manhood. 
He  begins,  therefore,  at  the  bottom,  with  charac- 
ter. The  way  for  the  negro  to  win  his  civil  rights 
from  the  white  man  is  to  win  his  confidence.  He 
must  show  to  the  white  man  that  he  is  a  good  citi- 
zen, a  desirable  member  of  society,  an  honest  and 
thrifty  producer,  whose  industry  enlarges  the  wealth 
and  well-being  of  the  whole  community — a  man  to 
be  relied  on,  both  for  faithful  service  and  honesty 
in  trade.  He  must  show  to  the  white  man  that  he 
is  indispensable  to  the  prosperity  of  the  country. 

I  cannot  go  into  the  details  of  the  training  in 
Tuskegee.  I  will  only  say  that  the  best  farmer  of 
the  South  is  at  the  head  of  that  department  of  the 
institution;  that  the  improvement  and  care  of  live- 
stock is  here  perfect  in  system  and  in  principles; 
and  that  just  so  far  as  the  negro  follows  the  teach- 
ings of  Mr.  Washington  and  his  aids,  to  that 
extent  he  becomes  a  prosperous  and  respected  citi- 
zen. The  most  gratifying  fact  about  this  whole 
movement  is  its  rapid  extension.  We  had  present 
the  apostle  of  the  reform  in  Texas,  Mr.  R.  L.  Smith, 
of  Oakland.  Mr.  Smith  is  a  man  of  brains,  the 
best  kind  of  shrewdness,  and  of  education.  He 
organized  among  the  negro  farmers  the  "Farmers' 
Improvement  Society  of  Texas."  The  motto  of 
this  organization  is  "The  abolition  of  the  credit 
system;  better  methods  of  farming;  co-operation; 
proper  care  of  the  sick  and  dead;  and  the  improve- 


1 48     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

ment  and  beautifying  of  our  homes."  In  brief, 
they  devote  themselves  to  the  purification  and  ele- 
vation of  home  life  and  the  success  of  their  business 
interests.  The  society  has  a  system  of  honorary 
degrees.  The  first  of  these  relates  to  the  avoidance 
of  debt.  The  farmer  who  finishes  his  year  clear  of 
debt  is  awarded  a  diploma.  If  he  have  saved 
twenty-five  dollars  he  receives  a  more  honorable 
recognition.  There  are  degrees  for  crops,  stock, 
house-building,  and  the  education  of  children.  Mr. 
Smith  will  mail  me  photographs  showing  the  new 
houses  built  under  this  system,  compared  with  the 
old.  Co-operation  is  carried  on  in  the  style  of  the 
Northern  grange. 

An  annex  to  this  society  is  the  "Woman's  Barn- 
yard Auxiliary,"  devoted  to  the  rearing  and  market- 
ing of  poultry  and  pigs,  the  feeding  of  calves,  the 
making  of  butter  and  cheese,  curing  meats,  market- 
ing, etc.  Societies  at  a  distance  send  delegates  to 
the  annual  conferences. 

The  second  day  of  the  conference  in  Tuskegee 
was  a  meeting  of  the  teachers  and  heads  of  schools. 
There  was  the  one  man,  always  present  at  a  meeting, 
who  imagines  himself  an  orator,  but  is  a  cruel  bore. 
In  this  case  our  specimen  was  president  of  some  sort 
of  an  agricultural  college  in  South  Carolina.  Inflated 
to  bursting  with  egotism,  this  man  paraded  up  and 
down  the  platform,  never  speaking  to  the  subject, 
consuming  the  time  of  other  speakers,  posturing 
and    strutting,    a   platform   nuisance   of    the    most 


Musings  of  the  South  149 


aggravating  kind.  The  subject  of  this  conference 
was  the  cultivation  of  better  relations  between  the 
two  races — the  causes  of  the  present  conditions,  so 
far  as  they  were  unfavorable,  and  the  remedies. 

Booker  Washington  walked  on  dangerous  ground. 
He  said  the  black  man  went  to  the  white  man  for 
employment,  food,  clothing,  and  shelter.  Their 
economic  interests  were  identical.  But  when  it 
came  to  politics,  a  subject  upon  which  all  Southern 
white  men  are  sensitive,  the  black  men  were  arrayed 
solidly  against  them.  There  are  only  as  many  white 
Republicans  in  any  county  or  city  as  there  are  fed- 
eral offices  to  distribute.  It  is  because  the  negroes 
are  solidly  Republican  in  politics,  and  are  in  a 
majority  in  many  districts,  that  the  white  man  dis- 
franchises them,  or  throws  out  their  vote.  No  man 
ought  to  violate  his  convictions  at  the  polls,  but  the 
division  of  the  races  on  political  lines  was  most 
unfortunate.  It  was  not  believed  by  some  of  the 
speakers  that  anything  could  be  gained  by  a  shift- 
ing of  political  grounds;  that  white  men  intend  that 
the  negro  shall  ever  be  a  subject  race,  as  nearly  in 
the  relation  of  slavery  as  the  laws  of  the  United 
States  will  permit.  The  only  way  out  of  this  is  that 
surveyed  by  Booker  Washington,  the  moral  eleva- 
tion of  the  black  men,  and  the  establishment  of 
confidence  and  respect  between  the  two  races  for 
each  other. 

In  answer  to  my  questions  a  very  favorable  view 
came  out.     The  white  men  place  no  obstructions  in 


1 50     Musings  by  Camp-Fir e  and  Wayside 

the  way  of  the  negroes  in  the  accumulation  of  prop- 
erty. In  the  mechanical  arts  and  in  trade,  while  the 
preference  is  given  to  the  white  mechanic  or  mer- 
chant, the  black  man  will  get  the  work  if  he  can  do 
it  better,  and  he  will  get  the  trade,  if  a  merchant, 
if  he  render  more  satisfactory  service. 

There  is  a  great  difference  in  the  relations  of  the 
two  races  in  different  localities.  The  better  com- 
munities of  the  white  people  are  more  favorable  to 
the  negroes  than  the  more  ignorant  communities. 
That  is  to  be  expected.  The  poor  whites,  the 
waste  class  of  the  population,  having  no  inherent 
superiority,  make  the  most  of  their  color  as  a  badge 
of  dominance  over  the  blacks. 

I  took  every  opportunity  in  Montgomery,  and 
elsewhere,  to  enter  into  conversation  with  white 
men  of  superior  position.  I  found  them  genuinely 
friendly  to  the  negroes.  For  example,  in  conver- 
sation with  a  distinguished  judge,  I  drew  him  out 
by  attacking  the  general  character  of  the  negroes, 
saying  that  they  were,  I  was  informed,  both  vicious 
and  worthless.  He  warmly  resented  it.  "They 
are  neither  vicious  nor  worthless.  White  men  who 
treat  them  fairly,"  he  said,  "have  no  trouble  with 
them.  You  have  a  more  serious  problem  with 
your  Polacks,  Italians,  and  Huns  than  we  have 
with  our  negroes.  We  do  not  have  to  call  out  the 
federal  troops  to  keep  them  from  destroying  our 
railroads  and  factories." 

The    old    aristocracy  likes   the    negroes.     The 


Musings  of  the  South  1 5 1 

better  class  feel  a  paternal  responsibility  for  the 
subject  race,  and  honestly  desire  their  best  inter- 
ests. But  they  are  making  a  serious  mistake  in 
disfranchising  them  indiscriminately,  and  in  not 
rigorously  punishing  outrages  upon  them.  There 
is  no  mistaking  the  fact  that  the  negroes  are  devel- 
oping examples  of  first-rate  patriotism  and  states- 
manship. Booker  Washington  does  not  stand  alone. 
Smith,  of  Texas,  is  a  man  of  exceptional  political 
sagacity,  and  of  organizing  and  executive  ability. 
In  the  end  I  do  not  think  the  present  loss  of  the 
ballot  will  do  the  negroes  permanent  harm.  It  is 
driving  them  into  the  only  real  road  to  success,  that 
of  bettering  their  own  condition,  both  moral  and 
material. 

Mr.  Morris  spoke  to  me  of  the  claim  that  it  is 
the  white  blood  in  the  negro  that  elevates  him,  and 
said  it  was  not  true ;  that  he  could  match  a  pure 
black  against  any  mulatto  for  equal  ability.  A  few 
weeks  ago  I  wrote  an  editorial  giving  the  pessi- 
mistic views  of  some  negro  physicians  in  regard  to 
the  destructive  effects  of  miscegenation  upon  the 
black  population.  I  am  assured  here  that  this  only 
relates  to  the  cities,  that  the  negro  blood  in  the 
country  is  clean  and  sound. 


JVayside  Musings 


BISHOP  TURNER,  in  an  address  at  the  last 
evening  meeting  of  the  conference,  de- 
nounced the  Southern  newspapers  in  un- 
measured terms.  It  had  frequently  been  mentioned 
before  that  the  Northern  and  general  public  ob- 
tained their  views  from  the  Southern  press.  As 
the  political  press  of  the  section  wishes  to  justify 
the  disfranchisement  of  the  negro,  which  is  now 
complete  in  most  of  the  Southern  states,  it  can 
only  do  so  by  attacking  their  characters,  indi- 
vidually and  as  a  race.  I  was  not  aware  that  there 
was  complaint  on  this  score,  but  when  attention  is 
called  to  it,  it  is  immediately  seen  that  there  is 
sufficient  motive.  Bishop  Turner  said  to  me,  in 
reply  to  an  expostulation,  "If  you  want  to  know  the 
truth,  black  your  face,  and  pass  yourself  off  for  a 
negro.  All  doubts  in  your  mind  will  be  fully  cleared 
up."  By  chance  I  obtained  a  view  of  that  which 
so  embittered  the  bishop.  I  met  a  Methodist 
minister  of  the  southern  branch,  and  fell  into  con- 
versation. He  and  a  chance  acquaintance,  a  North- 
ern man,  began  to  talk  of  the  "negro  problem."  I 
interposed  to  say  that  by  the  very  fact  that  the 
white  men  had  disfranchised  the  negroes,  they  were 
152 


Musings  of  the  South  1 5  3 

in  honor  bound  to  give  them  the  protection  of  the 
law;  to  guarantee  to  every  one  accused  of  crime  a 
fair  trial.  "If  a  man  should  foully  attack  your  wife 
or  child,  what  would  you  do?"  he  asked.  "I  would 
kill  him,  if  I  could  get  at  him,"  I  replied.  "Very 
well,  then,  what  are  you  complaining  about?"  "I 
am  complaining  that  you  kill  men  who  are  accused 
of  such  offenses  without  knowing  whether  they  are 
guilty  or  not.  Make  your  law  as  severe  as  you  like, 
but  take  lawful  precautions  that  the  innocent  may 
not  suffer  its  penalties."  And  now  came  out  the 
point  made  by  Bishop  Turner:  "Have  you  read 
accounts  of  the  shootings  at  Wilmington,  and  do 
you  know  why  those  negroes  were  shot?"  I  replied, 
"Only  generally."  "Well,  the  'H&vj  York  Journal 
says  it  was  because  the  men  elected  by  the  negro 
vote  intended  to  legalize  rape.  That  was  true, 
and  that  was  why  the  whites  rose  up  and  lynched 
them. " 

There  it  was!  There  was  a  Methodist  minister 
going  about  and  filling  the  minds  of  the  people  with 
that  murderous  lie — filling  their  minds  with  the  only 
motive  by  which  civilized  man  justifies  murder;  and 
this  not  against  an  individual,  but  against  a  race. 

I  have  said  that  the  old  masters,  the  old  aristoc- 
racy of  the  South,  with  some  of  whom  I  have  con- 
versed, have  the  kindliest  feeling  toward  the  colored 
people,  and  the  feeling  was,  and  is,  affectionately 
reciprocated.  It  is  true  that  they  did,  and  do, 
grant  them  favors  and  help  in  preference  to  white 


154     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

men.     But  the  old  masters  are  dying,  and  the  new- 
Pharaoh  knows  not  Joseph. 

I  said  that  I  had  been  among  the  Appalachian 
Highlanders,  and  found  myself  among  my  racial 
kindred.  "Among  the  moonshiners?"  he  said. 
"Yes,  among  the  moonshiners,  and  really  I  do 
not  blame  them  so  much.  They  are  living  in  the 
period  in  which  I  lived  when  a  boy,  when  there 
were  more  little  still-houses  around  us  than  school- 
houses,  and  nobody  ever  thought  of  attaching 
wrong  to  the  business." 

"I  would  not  want  that  fire  under  my  boiler  in 
the  next  world." 

My  ministerial  chance  acquaintance  further 
asked:  "Do  you  know  what  the  negroes  want? 
They  want  social  equality,"  and  he  looked  at  me 
with  wide-eyed  horror.  I  had  to  be  polite,  and  not 
tell  him  what  amused  me.  It  was  the  spectacle,  a 
fancy,  of  a  man  who  had  to  call  in  his  neighbors, 
with  shot-guns,  to  keep  him  from  marrying  a  colored 
individual. 

"There  is  that  negro,  Booker  Washington,"  he 
said;  "now  if  you  were  going  to  a  hotel  and  had 
to  choose  between  him  and  a  white  man  for  a  room- 
mate, which  would  you  choose?" 

I  replied  that  I  would  choose  neither,  but  if  it 
were  a  matter  of  compulsion,  I  could  not  decide  the 
question  on  general  principles.  It  would  be  a  ques- 
tion to  be  decided  on  sanitary  inspection.  This 
matter  came  up  in  a  conversation  with  Mr.  Washing- 


Musings  of  the  South  1 5  5 

ton  in  connection  with  Frederick  Douglass.  He 
said  that  much  as  Douglass  was  revered,  he  did  his 
race  great  harm  by  his  last  marriage,  gave  occasion 
for  the  charge  that  they  aspired  to  the  possession 
of  white  wives.  Douglass  himself  saw  his  mistake 
and  regretted  it,  not  because  of  his  wife,  however. 

There  are  the  same  two  classes  in  the  South  that 
there  are  in  the  North,  and  the  world  over.  There 
is  an  intelligent  and  far-seeing  patriotism  here,  and 
it  is  in  the  class  which  in  the  long  run  molds  and 
controls  public  sentiment.  This  is  supplemented  by 
the  Anglo-Saxon,  not  the  Spanish,  sense  of  honor, 
and  is  further  supplemented  by  Christian  sentiment 
and  principles.  These  men  do  not  underrate  the 
seriousness  of  the  problem  before  them,  but  they 
face  it  courageously.  It  affords  them  great  hope 
to  witness  the  elements  of  self-help  so  powerfully 
at  work  among  the  colored  people,  and  they  express 
the  deepest  interest,  and  afford  active  encourage- 
ment. 

I  spoke  in  my  last  Musing  of  happening  here  at 
Kowaliga  by  overhearing  a  conversation  between 
two  attractive  young  men,  Mr.  Benson  and  Mr. 
Morris.  The  latter  is  an  orator  of  considerable 
power.  I  dissuaded  him  from  going  to  Liberia,  by 
saying  that  he  was  needed  at  home,  and  cited  the 
instance  of  Mr.  Briar,  who  went  to  Gaboon — the 
useless  sacrifice  of  a  valuable  life.  Mr.  Morris 
replied,  "Institutions  must  have  graves  for  their 
foundations."     Young   Mr.   Benson    is  finely  edu- 


156     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

cated,  and  is  actuated  by  high  principles  and  ideals. 
He  has  turned  his  back  upon  the  allurements  of  the 
cities,  and  devoted  his  life  to  the  elevation  of  his 
people  in  this  chance  place,  in  the  heart  of  the 
"Black  Belt." 

Mr.  John  J.  Benson,  his  father,  was  fourteen 
years  old  when  emancipated  on  the  advice  given 
generally  by  General  Lee  on  his  surrender.  Mr. 
Benson's  father  was  his  master.  He  had  died 
before  the  emancipation,  and  John  and  four  full 
brothers  and  sisters  were  divided  up  among  the 
heirs  as  slaves.  His  mother,  still  living,  recovered 
all  her  children  but  one,  who  was  sold  away  on  his 
father's  death,  and  could  not  be  traced.  Another 
child,  a  little  girl  of  six,  was  recovered  by  young 
John.  He  found  her  painted  over  with  tar,  as  she 
was  otherwise  indistinguishable  from  a  white  child, 
carried  her  the  most  of  the  way  of  fourteen  miles  at 
night  in  his  arms;  but  she  soon  died.  John  set 
resolutely  to  work  with  one  special  resolve:  never 
to  go  in  debt.  He  has  succeeded  so  well  that  he 
now  owns  three  thousand  acres  of  land,  sixty  head 
of  horses  and  mules,  as  many  cows,  a  saw-mill  and 
a  grist-mill,  and  sufificient  farming  utensils  for  his 
plantations.  Something  over  two  hundred  people 
are  supported  on  his  property — tenants,  or  laborers 
and  their  families.  On  returning  from  Howard 
University  three  years  ago,  young  Benson  built  and 
set  up  a  store  at  an  investment  of  four  thousand 
dollars.     The    insurance    underwriters   would    not 


Musings  of  the  South  1 5  7 

take  the  risk,  and  wisely,  as  it  was  soon  fired  by  an 
incendiary  and  proved  a  total  loss.  This  was  prob- 
ably not  so  unfortunate,  as  it  turned  his  attention 
to  benevolent  work.  A  lady  who  was  clearing  a 
plantation  furnished  the  pine  logs,  Mr.  Benson 
sawed  them,  the  people  contributed  their  labor,  and 
the  result  is  a  large  school-building,  forty  by  sixty 
feet,  with  rooms  for  one  hundred  and  twenty  stu- 
dents. The  attendance  for  the  year  amounts  to 
two  hundred  and  fifty  pupils.  The  training  is  in- 
dustrial. Young  Benson  obtained  a  scholarship  in  a 
technical  school  in  Boston  for  a  young  white  man 
who  is  now  there  preparing  himself  to  teach  mechan- 
ical industry  in  this  school.  One  of  his  sisters  is 
teaching  in  the  school,  and  one  is  at  Tuskegee, 
preparing  for  the  same  work. 

The  purpose  of  the  Bensons,  father  and  son,  is 
to  set  up  a  model  negro  settlement,  and  demon- 
strate the  possibility  of  success  for  their  people  in 
intelligent  industry.  As  an  example  of  what  is 
possible,  one  of  Benson's  tenants  selected  a  patch 
of  three  measured  acres,  from  which  last  year  he 
harvested  137  bushels  of  oats,  52  bushels  of  corn, 
25  bushels  of  potatoes,  and  35  bushels  of  peas. 
The  oats  were  the  first  crop,  and  the  other  crops 
followed.  The  total  value  at  prices  here  was 
$119.50. 

There  are  four  traditional  drags  upon  the 
people,  white  and  black.  The  first  is  the  large 
investment    each   year   in   commercial    fertilizers. 


158     Mzisings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

They  do  not  think  they  can  make  a  cotton  crop 
without  guano.  Mr.  Benson  has  demonstrated  the 
fact  that  he  can  make  more  cotton  to  the  acre  with- 
out it  than  they  can  with  it.  He  makes  his  own. 
When  the  cotton  crop  is  harvested,  and  all  others 
are  idle,  during  the  months  intervening,  he  rakes 
leaves  in  the  woods,  and  makes  compost  by  using 
his  cotton  seed,  which  others  sell  at  ten  cents  per 
bushel.  This  compost,  with  the  savings  of  his  stock 
barns  and  yards,  gives  him  a  fertilizer  superior  to 
the  adulterated  guano,  without  cost  other  than  labor 
which  would  otherwise  be  unemployed. 

The  second  traditional  drag  is  the  credit  system. 
This  is  an  inheritance  from  the  remotest  past  of 
cotton  planting  in  this  country.  The  small  planter 
or  farmer  never  sees  money.  He  is  furnished  with 
a  living  for  himself  and  his  help,  and  his  mules, 
mortgaging  his  crop  for  the  same,  is  charged  what- 
ever prices  the  store-keeper  likes  to  charge,  and 
takes  him  his  receipts  for  his  cotton,  which  usually 
leaves  him  in  debt,  and  he  begins  to  borrow  on  the 
next  crop. 

The  third  traditional  drag  is  that  he  raises  cot- 
ton exclusively,  and  buys  his  corn  and  meat,  paying 
high  prices.  They  are  just  now  paying  fifty-five 
cents  per  bushel  for  their  corn.  This  was  always 
so.  I  remember  that  the  Ohio  farmers  depended 
upon  a  good  cotton  crop  to  give  them  a  market  for 
their  pork. 

The  fourth  traditional  drag  is  laziness.     When 


Musings  of  the  South  1 59 

the  cotton  crop  is  picked  no  work  is  done  till  plant- 
ing time  comes  again. 

The  way  Mr.  Benson  made  his  handsome  home 
was  by  reversing  every  one  of  these  customs.  He 
is  bringing  his  people  to  his  view  of  things.  The 
consequence  is  that  those  of  his  tenants  who  follow 
his  example  and  advice  are  getting  ahead. 


apujsing  tt)t  foutteentl^ 

JVayside  Musings 


I  HASTILY  took  a  picture  of  the  great  falls  of 
the  Tallahassee  as  I  stopped  at  Tallahassee  to 
take  a  team  across  the  country  to  Kowaliga, 
but  marked  the  scenery,  intending  to  spend  a  day 
there  when  I  came  out,  and  fill  my  case  with  fine 
negatives.  But  there  had  been  a  heavy  rain  and  the 
tumbling  water  was  of  the  same  color  with  the 
rocks,  and  I  saw  that  good  pictures  were  impossi- 
ble, still  I  took  a  half-dozen,  having  nothing  else 
to  do.  As  I  look  at  these  monotonous  negatives 
and  see  how  splendid  those  up-flying  columns  of 
spray  would  have  been  had  they  been  clear  water 
instead  of  red  mud,  it  gives  me  that  sinking  of 
heart  with  which  all  photographers,  amateur  or 
professional,  are  familiar.  Allow  me  to  say  that 
there  is  no  finer  set  of  lenses  than  mine — the  Zeiss. 
The  price  was  above  my  purse,  but  I  received  the 
outfit  as  a  Christmas  present.  An  exposure  of  one- 
fiftieth  of  one  second,  so  quick  that  the  eye  can 
hardly  recognize  it,  gives  me  details  as  sharp  as 
those  of  a  magnifying  glass. 

But  I  looked  at  the  leaping  and  foaming  water, 
which  here  makes  a  descent  of  fifty  feet,  and  then 
thought  of  the  train-loads  of  cotton  which  I  saw 
1 60 


Musings  of  the  South 


going  upon  the  cars  at  Montgomery  to  be  shipped 
to  England,  and  wondered  why  the  immense  cotton- 
mill,  which  is  now  ready  for  its  roof  at  the  foot  of 
the  falls,  had  not  been  built  there  long  ago.  For 
fifty  or  more  years  the  planters  have  been  hauling 
their  heavy  bales  right  by  this  splendid  water-power 
to  be  shipped  to  New  England  or  abroad.  By  the 
time  the  next  crop  is  ready  this  great  mill  will  be 
ready  for  it.  It  is  built  of  stone,  quarried  out  of 
its  basement.  The  planters  for  thirty  miles 
around — an  area  of  three  thousand  five  hundred 
square  miles — will  haul  their  cotton  straight  to  the 
mill — not  a  cent  of  cost  for  transportation.  They 
will  raft  it  down  the  Tallahassee  from  a  hundred 
miles  above;  the  mill  will  get  all  its  cotton  direct 
from  the  fields  and  gins.  The  market  for  the 
product  will  be,  in  part,  right  here.  They  can  float 
the  surplus  down  the  Alabama  River  to  the  gulf. 
How  are  the  New  England  mills  going  to  compete 
with  such  advantages  against  them?  They  cannot 
do  it.  Some  of  these  Southern  rivers  are  so  rapid 
that  they  would  furnish  a  mill-site  every  ten  miles. 
The  French  Broad  falls  a  thousand  feet  in  a  little 
over  a  hundred  miles.  The  time  is  not  far  off  when 
our  cotton  states  will  sell  no  more  raw  cotton. 
They  will  ship  it  out  in  sheetings,  prints,  ginghams, 
duck-canvas,  and  other  weaves  and  fabrics. 

Everybody  has  heard  of  Birmingham.  The  de- 
velopment of  iron  manufacture  there  is  only  in  its 
beginning.     One  great  source  of  wealth  has  been 


1 62     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

wasted — the  forests.  One  is  astonished  to  see  great 
pine  forests  of  the  finest  timber  deadened  and  set 
on  fire  to  clear  land,  one  good  tree  of  which  is 
worth  more  than  the  whole  acre  on  which  it  and  a 
dozen  others  like  it  grew.  Still  this  Southland  is 
the  seat  of  future  enormous  wealth.  It  contains 
nearly  all  the  elements  of  the  wealth  of  the  world, 
and  eager  hands  are  reaching  out  from  the  North 
and  from  England  to  develop  it.  Dig  the  Nicara- 
guan  Canal!  Keep  the  Oriental  doors  open,  that 
the  golden  tide  may  flow  in  and  flow  out  of  this 
peerless  empire! 

The  Southern  renter,  be  he  white  or  black,  is  a 
peon,  who  is  allowed  a  bare  living  by  his  landlord. 
He  lives  mostly  upon  corn-meal,  for  which  he  is  in 
debt,  and  be  his  crop  of  cotton  large  or  small 
makes  no  great  difference  to  him,  as  it  all  goes  any- 
way at  the  end  of  the  year,  to  pay  for  the  year's 
living.  As  for  the  landlord,  he  is  not  much  better 
off,  because  the  cotton  will  barely  pay  his  debt  tor 
the  year's  supplies  for  his  land  and  tenants,  his 
fertilizers,  pork,  meal,  and  mule  feed.  The  Ben- 
sons,  father  and  son,  have  set  themselves,  as  I  said 
previously,  to  build  up  a  thriving  neighborhood. 
John  J.,  the  father,  simply  in  the  way  of  business, 
and  to  get  the  most  out  of  his  large  landed  estate, 
has  been  trying  to  bring  up  the  character  of  his 
tenants — to  teach  them  the  value  of  intelligent 
planting,  and  of  industry.  Finding  a  desirable 
man  he  offers  to  sell  him  land,  and  show  him  how 


Musings  of  the  South  163 

to  pay  for  it.  He  very  soon  saw  that  his  land-hold- 
ings would  be  unprofitable  to  him  if  he  could  not 
make  them  profitable  to  his  tenants.  All  he  wants 
is  the  right  kind  of  a  man.  He  need  not  have  any- 
thing but  a  few  ragged  clothes.  Benson  will  furnish 
him  mules,  a  cow,  a  pig,  seed,  farming  utensils, 
everything,  and  give  him  half  he  raises.  That  is 
the  business  side  of  it,  and  there  is  a  weighty  hint 
to  landholders  how  to  make  their  lands  pay  inter- 
est. Young  Benson  wants  good  society.  He  wants 
a  cultivated  wife,  and  people  around  her  who  will 
make  her  contented  in  this  out-of-the-way  place. 
Therefore  he  is  pushing  for  the  right  kind  of  a 
school.  "Here  is  this  timber  going  to  waste,"  he 
says.  "We  want  to  teach  our  people  how  to  make 
wagons,  ax-handles,  plow-stocks,  houses,  furniture, 
every  useful  thing  that  is  wooden,  out  of  it.  Here  is 
this  water-power  going  to  waste.  We  want  to  put 
it  to  work  for  the  people.  Here  is  the  school-house. 
We  want  to  make  the  people  intelligent,  and  we 
want  an  educated,  but  sensible,  minister.  We  want 
to  get  rid  of  cock-fighting,  gambling,  drinking, 
loafing,  and  every  sort  of  meanness,  and  have  a 
neighborhood  that  is  fit  for  a  man  to  live  comfort- 
ably and  happily  in." 

It  is  plain  to  be  seen  that  the  elder  Benson  is  on 
the  right  track  for  doubling  the  price  of  his  land,  and 
getting  his  pay  for  his  goods.  And  it  is  equally 
plain  that  the  younger  Benson  is  on  the  right 
track  for  himself  as  a  cultured  man,  for  his  neigh- 


1 64     Mtisings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

bors  and  their  children,  and  for  his  race  in  this 
country.  These  two,  without  any  knowledge  of 
theoretic  sociology,  are  getting  at  the  kernel  of  it 
as  instinctively  as  a  squirrel  gets  at  the  kernel  of  a 
nut.  They  are  solving  the  "negro  problem"  in  the 
only  way  it  ever  can  be  solved.  By  the  way,  this 
problem  is  as  much  of  a  poor  white,  as  it  is  of  a  rich 
white,  problem — as  much  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  as  an 
African  problem. 

It  was  imagined  that  the  negro  could  be  elevated 
to  intelligent  citizenship  by  constitutional  law — a 
favorite  idea  in  moral  reform  with  many.  But  he 
is  no  exception.     All  must 

"  Wait  beneath  the  furnace  blast 
The  pangs  of  transformation." 
The  transition  period  is  for  him  what  it  ever  has 
been  for  man — a  period  of  suffering.  The  downfall 
of  slavery  was  the  downfall  of  feudalism — history 
repeating  itself.  The  dependents  of  the  baron's 
castle,  his  retainers  and  serfs,  were  turned  out 
upon  the  world  without  experience  in  self-help  or 
self-control,  to  beg,  steal,  or  starve,  the  alternative 
being  between  starvation  and  the  gibbet.  Thou- 
sands died  of  one  or  the  other.  The  unfit  were 
weeded  out,  and  only  sturdiness  and  character  sur- 
vived to  constitute  the  stalwart  Teutonic  nations  of 
to-day.  The  Southern  negro  has  no  protection  in 
life  or  person  but  that  which  comes  of  public  senti- 
ment. Any  white  man,  and  especially  any  white 
woman,  can  have  a  negro  lynched,  and  as  they  are 


Musings  of  the  South  165 

not  allowed  to  sit  upon  juries,  if  there  be  not  locally 
a  high  sense  of  justice  among  the  white  men,  there 
is  no  redress. 

This  was  really  the  subject  of  the  second  day's 
conference  in  Tuskegee:  "How  shall  better  rela- 
tions be  brought  about  between  the  two  races?" 
The  relations  of  the  white  man  to  the  negro  are 
already  satisfactory  to  him,  as  he  establishes  them 
by  public  sentiment  and  by  law.  The  question 
really,  then,  was,  "How  shall  the  negro  win  the  con- 
fidence and  good-will  of  the  white  man?"  Booker 
Washington  is  right  in  believing  that  the  negro  can 
win  this  confidence  and  good-will,  and  hence  legal 
protection,  by  the  elevation  of  his  own  character. 
Washington,  Benson,  and  Smith  of  Texas,  know 
that  he  can  only  do  it  by  making  himself  an  indus- 
trious, reliable,  and  valuable  member  of  the  com- 
munity. If  I  had  the  ear  of  the  public  of  the  South, 
I  would  say  that  they  could  do  nothing  better  for 
themselves  than  to  give  full  recognition  to  merit  by 
insisting  upon  the  civil  rights  of  intelligent  and 
worthy  negroes.  This  would  put  a  high  reward  and 
inducement  before  worthy  colored  people,  and 
before  the  unworthy,  to  rise.  It  would  also  satisfy 
public  Northern  sentiment — a  sentiment  which, 
though  the  South  may  not  be  aware  of  it,  will  as 
surely  culminate  in  drastic  action  as  slavery  did. 
While  a  Georgia  cracker,  who  can  neither  read  nor 
write,  the  lowest  white  man  in  America,  can  go  to 
the  polls  and  counterbalance  two  white  votes  of  the 


1 66     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

best  element  in  the  country,  and  this  in  violation  of 
the  constitution  and  laws  of  the  United  States,  it 
would  be  very  foolish  in  a  Southern  politician  to 
imagine  that  the  Northern  voter  will  long  submit. 
The  forty-eight  congressmen  who  are  there  in  vio- 
lation of  the  equal  rights  of  the  Northern  voter  will 
be  compelled  to  retire,  unless  there  is  a  change. 
This  is  not  the  negro's  question,  it  is  the  white 
man's  question,  and  he  is  no  friend  of  the  Southern 
white  voter  who  leads  him  to  suppose  that  the  white 
man  can  thus  be  half  disfranchised  from  his  share 
in  the  control  of  the  government  of  the  United 
States,  and  this  disability  be  maintained.  We  put 
it  to  the  intelligent  Southern  voter  himself.  Would 
you  stand  it?  Not  if  you  had  the  power  to  right  it. 
If  the  negro  is  not  fit  to  vote,  he  is  not  fit  to  be 
voted.  But  if  it  be  made  apparent  that  the  dis- 
franchisement of  the  negro  is  not  for  partisan 
political  purposes,  that  it  is  solely  for  the  protec- 
tion of  good  government — and  this  undoubtedly  is 
the  reason  for  the  assent  of  enlightened  and  patri- 
otic Southern  citizens  to  present  restrictions — that 
fact  can  be  demonstrated  by  giving  equal  political 
rights  to  negroes  who  are  fit  to  exercise  the  fran- 
chise intelligently.  This  would  go  far  toward  the 
reconciliation  of  the  Northern  voter  to  the  existing 
basis  of  representation. 


^mim  t\it  fffteenti^ 


Asi)ects  of  Southern  Prosperity 


ASIDE  from  ethical  questions  involved,  which 
were  so  long  agitated,  this  finest  belt  of  the 
'-  continent,  it  is  now  manifest,  was  seriously 
harmed  by  slavery — a  harm  which  continued  long 
because  it  was  not  realized.  It  hindered  progress  of 
every  kind,  concentrated  labor  in  a  single  path,  im- 
poverished the  soil,  and  excluded  the  new  population 
which  vitalized  the  North.  No  matter  how  good  a 
stock  of  people  may  be  at  the  beginning,  it  needs  the 
circulation  of  the  blood  of  the  best  races  to  maintain 
it  at  its  best.  But  for  the  excluding  influence  of 
slavery  this  Southland  would  now  be  the  Eden  of 
the  earth.  Time  is  required  to  change  old  traditions 
and  habits.  The  change  is  here,  and  the  South  is 
on  the  highway  to  great  prosperity.  If  exported 
cotton  was  King,  manufactured  cotton  is  Kaiser. 
Hard  as  it  may  be  on  New  and  Old  England,  the 
South  will  cease  to  be  a  cotton  exporting  country, 
and  appear  with  finished  products,  without  a  rival 
in  the  markets  of  the  world.  So  long  as  the  home 
supply  is  sufficient  to  furnish  the  raw  material  for 
another  mill,  it  will  pay  to  plant  that  mill.  There 
is  not  a  required  item  lacking.  The  coal  in  my 
grate  here  I  find  to  be  of  very  superior  quality. 
167 


1 68     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

This  same  quality  is  laid  down  at  the  mills  for  one 
dollar  and  fifty  cents  per  ton.  Abundance  of  cheap 
food,  wood,  iron,  stone,  water-power,  a  docile 
labor,  give  unapproachable  advantages.  The  chief 
expense  of  old-time  production,  labor,  is  practically 
canceled.  An  acre  of  automatic  looms,  every  one 
running  with  incredible  celerity,  gives  a  powerful 
impression  of  the  suppression  of  operative  skill  and 
muscle.  The  docile  negro  is  here,  and  he  has  the 
Oriental  aptitude  for  manipulation  in  a  given  line. 
The  South  will  get  all  there  is  in  cotton,  from  start 
to  finish,  and  she  does  not  intend  to  be  shut  out 
of  the  market.  If  the  "door"  is  closed  it  will  only 
be  necessary  to  let  the  contract  for  opening  it  to 
the  Southern  state  that  will  take  the  job  at  the 
lowest  bid.  It  was  comical  to  see  these  fiery  fel- 
lows playing  Quaker  last  summer. 

In  the  "good  old  slavery  times" — and  there 
were  good  times  for  both  the  slaves  and  masters  in 
old  Kentucky  and  Virginia,  not  so  good  in  the  cot- 
ton and  rice  fields — when  a  master  cared  nothing 
for  his  slaves  but  for  what  he  could  get  out  of  them, 
he  would  employ  either  a  Yankee  or  a  "nigger" 
overseer.  They  were  about  on  a  par,  but  the 
Yankee  generally  was  the  worst.  We  may  say, 
with  limitations,  that  the  Yankee  and  negro  over- 
seers abolished  slavery. 

A  gentleman — I  forget  names  in  a  minute,  and  I 
did  not  have  his  card — invited  me  to  visit  his  cot- 
ton-mill.     I  took  the  invitation  as  good  for  the  first 


Musings  of  the  South  i6q 

mill  I  came  to,  and  applied  at  the  office.  An 
elderly  man  sitting  at  a  desk  said  I  would  have  to 
apply  to  the  superintendent,  and  pointed  him  out 
to  me.  "Who  invited  you  here?"  he  growled. 
"He  ought  to  have  asked  me.  But  go,"  and  he 
waved  his  hand  toward  a  side  door.  I  hesitated, 
not  knowing  exactly  whether  he  was  putting  me  in 
or  putting  me  out.  "There!"  he  said,  roughly, 
pointing  to  the  side  door. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  express  my  personal 
opinion  of  him  and  retire — but  there  came  a  gleam 
of  recognition.  I  knew  him  of  old — that  is,  I  knew 
the  breed.  One  does  not  need  to  know  each  indi- 
vidual specimen  when  he  knows  the  breed.  "Oh!" 
I  thought,  "so  you  are  the  Yankee  overseer!"  and 
I  looked  him  over.  Yes,  there  was  no  mistaking  his 
class  identity.  Fifty  years  ago  I  noticed  that  any 
two  of  them  were  as  alike  in  disposition,  and  nearly 
as  much  in  looks,  as  two  bears.  Now  I  wanted  to 
see  whether  any  change  had  come  in  two  genera- 
tions, for  better  or  worse,  over  the  Yankee  over- 
seer. The  "negro,"  I  knew,  had  improved.  Had 
the  Yankee?  That  was  the  sociological  problem 
before  me. 

I  had  noticed  the  bellowing  of  the  steam  bull  at 
4:30  A.  M.  At  first  I  thought  it  a  fire-alarm. 
Then  it  woke  the  echoes  again  at  5  a.  m.,  then  at 
5 :  40,  and  once  more  at  6  a.  m.  I  was  curious 
to  know  what  all  this  threatening  was  about.  A 
hungry  lion  could  not  have  been  more  impatient. 


1 70     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

I  went  out  at  that  side  door  and  into  the  huge 
building  with  my  wrath  submerged  in  scientific  en- 
thusiasm. Acres  of  looms — about  eight  hundred  of 
them,  they  tell  me.  Every  one  driven  at  the  top 
of  its  speed.  The  shuttles  flew  like  shot.  Thirty 
per  cent  per  annum,  net,  on  the  capital,  was  what 
they  were  going  for  and  getting.  The  air  was  full 
of  roar  and  of  cotton  fibers.  Little  boys  and  girls, 
young  women  and  men,  were  hovering  and  flitting 
about  in  the  din  and  dust  like  ghosts — which  the 
children  soon  will  be. 

After  looking  over  the  various  processes  I  went 
to  the  power-house.  There  was  a  bright,  gentle- 
manly young  man  in  charge,  plainly  a  well-bred 
young  man.  I  took  his  name,  Mr.  Messer,  possibly 
a  relative  of  Wilbur  Messer,  head  of  our  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
His  engine  was  ten  hundred  horse-power,  he  had  to 
make  it  pull  for  twelve  hundred;  but  a  new  fifteen 
hundred  was  going  in  which  would  take  on  another 
eight  hundred  looms. 

Returning  along  the  dusty  road,  a  negro  came 
over  the  hill  on  a  galloping  mule.  He  was  licking 
the  mule  to  make  it  go  faster.  Coming  opposite 
me  he  reined  up  strongly  with  a  "Whoa!"  "Say, 
Mister,  did  ye  see  anything  of  a  plow-pint  as  ye 
come  along?"  I  had  not  seen  any  plow-point. 
"How  did  you  happen  to  lose  it?"  "Dat  mule," 
he  answered,  looking  down  fiercely  at  the  long  ears, 
and  hitting  him  a  cut  he  was  galloping  again. 

Just  so.     It  is  always  "dat  mule. " 


Musings  of  the  South  1 7 1 

"How  much  time  is  a  day's  work  over  there?" 
pointing  to  the  Dallas  mill,  I  inquired  of  a  passing 
white  man.  "From  six  till  six-twenty."  "They 
have  an  hour  at  noon,  I  suppose?"  "No,  sir,  a  half 
hour."  "Do  you  mean  to  say  they  work  those 
children  twelve  hours  a  day?"  "No,  sir,  eleven, 
and  fifty  minutes.  They  have  a  half  hour  off,  as  I 
told  you."  "Sundays?"  "No,  sir,  the  mills  are 
not  run  on  Sundays." 

John  Calvin,  wherever  you  are,  do  you  hear 
that?  You  see  that  wherever  God  comes  in  he 
comes  to  save.  It  is  only  the  devil,  the  overseer, 
and  the  absentee  proprietor  who  would  damn  people 
for  their  own  glory. 

The  next  morning  when  the  last  bellow  was 
blown  I  looked  out  upon  the  eastern  dawn.  It  was 
roseate  with  hope  and  promise.  From  the  tall 
stack  a  long  streamer  of  soot  trailed  the  sky,  stain- 
ing the  brow  of  the  day.  "And  the  smoke  of  their 
torment  ascendeth  forages  and  ages";  not  "for- 
ever and  ever, "  thank  God.  He  did  not  write  it 
that  way.  Not  forever  and  ever,  because  the  legis- 
lature of  Alabama  may  come  to  the  knowledge  that 
"the  powers  that  be  are  of  God,"  and  in  his  name, 
and  in  the  interest  of  his  salvation,  put  a  stop  to 
the  Yankee  overseer.  Fifty  years  ago  God  was  deal- 
ing with  blacks,  now  it  is  with  whites.  The  color 
makes  no  difference  to  him.  He  makes  the  white 
children  whiter,  just  as  he  used  to  make  the  black 
children  blacker.     It  took  some  blood  to  wipe  him 


172     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  mid  Wayside 

out  before.  A  bottle  of  ink  will  do  it  now.  It 
would  be  wholly  unjust  to  construe  what  I  have 
said  of  a  particular  instance  to  all  the  mill  owners 
and  superintendents.  Some  of  them  are  men  of 
benevolence  and  Christian  character,  who  do  the 
best  they  can  for  the  health,  moral  elevation,  and 
happiness  of  their  operatives.  I  could  point  to 
such  establishments  and  name  the  men.  The  evil 
comes  largely  to  the  South,  as  it  went  to  Ireland, 
from  non-resident  proprietary.  That  word  largely 
explains  it.  And  these  non-resident  interests  set 
the  pace  and  give  character  to  the  system.  It  must 
be  placed  under  legal  regulation,  or  it  will  continu- 
ally grow  worse. 

Like  all  wrongs  which  arise  out  of  greed,  this 
evil  of  child  slavery  is  strongly  entrenched  and  will 
be  found  to  be  very  difficult  of  suppression.  Like 
the  old  black  slavery  it  is  a  "domestic  institu- 
tion"— that  is,  it  falls  under  the  reserved  rights  of 
the  states,  and  the  constitution  gives  the  general 
government  no  power  to  interfere.  But  the  various 
cotton  states  are  just  now  competing  strongly  with 
each  other  for  the  new  manufactories.  The  capi- 
talists let  it  be  understood  that  any  limitations  put 
upon  child  labor  will  be  regarded  by  them  as  "un- 
friendly legislation" — same  old  thing,  you  see — 
and  they  will  build  mills  only  in  states  which  are 
friendly  to  them.  Mr.  Bitzer  told  me  of  an  effort 
that  had  been  made  recently  for  the  suppression  of 
white  slavery  in  Alabama.     A  bill  was  drawn  with 


Musings  of  the  Sotith  173 

the  following  moderate  provisions :  Forbidding  the 
employment  of  children  under  twelve  years  of  age 
in  the  factories;  requiring  that  children  up  to  the 
age  of  fourteen  years  should  not  be  employed  unless 
they  could  show  a  certificate  of  three  months'  school 
attendance  each  year;  reducing  the  day's  labor  to 
eleven  hours  by  giving  one  hour  of  rest  at  noon; 
making  a  week's  work  consist  of  sixty  working 
hours,  which  if  they  ran  eleven  hours  per  day, 
would  give  the  children  Saturday  afternoons.  An 
exception  was  made  of  poor  widows'  children  who 
supported  their  mothers,  and  were  not  thus  pro- 
tected. Lobbyists  came  from  all  over  the  state  and 
succeeded  in  defeating  the  bill.  Alabama  will  not 
place  herself  at  a  disadvantage  in  competing  with 
other  states  for  cotton  factories.  I  have  said  that 
the  item  of  labor  wage  does  not  count  so  high,  com- 
paratively, as  in  other  lines  of  manufacture,  and  it 
is  becoming  less.  An  invention  has  just  been  intro- 
duced which  makes  the  loom  a  perfect  automaton. 
When  the  bobbin  in  the  shuttle  is  exhausted,  the 
device  flings  the  stick  out  and  replaces  it  with  a 
new  bobbin.  One  attendant,  to  whom  sixty  cents 
a  day  is  paid,  will  run  twelve  of  these  looms — give 
one  hundred  and  forty-four  hours  of  machine  work 
for  sixty  cents — one  loom  twelve  hours  for  five 
cents.  This  is  practically  eliminating  wages  from 
the  cost  of  manufacture. 

There  is  no  economic  necessity  for  child  labor. 
The    advantages   which    the    manufacturer    in    the 


174     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

South  has  over  his  competitors  elsewhere,  places 
him  out  of  reach,  above,  and  ahead  of  them.  It  is 
all  right  for  him  to  keep  his  machinery  moving 
twenty-four  hours  to  the  day  if  the  market  demands 
it,  but  he  can  afford  to  run  three  shifts  of  eight 
hours  each.  We  would  like  to  see  him  work  up 
every  ounce  of  cotton  raised  on  this  side  of  the 
water. 

The  Tennessee  here  is  a  noble  looking  river, 
although  along  the  low  valley,  which  overflows  in 
the  spring  freshets,  there  is  malaria.  We  drove  up 
to  a  dilapidated  house  where  the  children  were  so 
plenty  it  seemed  like  a  school.  The  air  was  chill, 
and  Mr.  Bitzer,  like  all  these  Southerners,  found  it 
too  bracing  for  comfort,  so  we  went  in  for  a  warm. 
There  was  a  low  fire,  but  no  wood  cut,  so  I  swung 
an  ax  on  a  dry  elm  log — you  know  how  that  chops — 
and  got  a  piece  off  it,  kind  of  "chawed"  it  off  with 
the  ax.  "How  many  children  have  you?"  the  pater 
was  asked.  "Six  or  seven,  so  fur,"  he  answered. 
It  seems  he  had  not  kept  tally  on  a  notched  stick, 
so  he  was  not  exactly  sure.  One  of  the  boys  out- 
side asked,  "How  much  do  you  charge  for  takin' 
pictures?"  "Nothing."  That  boy  slid  into  the 
house  quickly  to  his  mother.  She  came  out  and 
said  she  had  been  saving  and  hoping  for  money 
enough  to  have  pictures  of  her  children,  but  it 
seemed  as  if  she  never  could  get  it.  She  wanted 
seven  copies,  one  for  each  child,  so  that  if  any  of 
them  should  die  there  would  be  a  remembrancer. 


Mtismgs  of  the  South  175 

I  thought  of  the  father's  "so  fur"  and  have  made 
an  extra  copy  for  future  contingencies. 

The  South  is  making  future  trouble  for  herself 
with  these  new  manufactories.  The  various  locali- 
ties are  competing  for  them,  and  submitting  to 
extortionate  and  unreasonable  demands.  I  have 
not  time  to  investigate  and  verify  the  statements  I 
hear  made,  but  have  no  reason  to  doubt  them. 
Take  the  Dallas  mill  here  in  Huntsville,  which  I 
visited.  They  have  acquired  large  land  property 
in  the  edge  of  the  city,  on  which  to  erect  their  mills 
and  villages.  They  are  exempted  from  taxation  for 
ten  years.  They  are  furnished  free,  at  the  expense 
of  the  city,  with  water  pumped  from  the  great 
spring.  They  are  indifferent  to  the  welfare  of 
their  employes.  For  example,  an  epidemic  of 
measles  broke  out  among  them,  and  the  benevolent 
citizens  had  to  donate  money  for  the  care  of  the 
company's  employes,  to  which  relief  the  latter 
refused  to  contribute  a  cent.  On  being  appealed 
to,  the  superintendent  would  look  over  his  roll,  and 
say,  "Not  in  our  employment."  They  were  not  in 
the  employment  of  the  company  while  they  were 
sick  or  dying,  or  to  be  buried,  because  as  soon  as 
they  fell  ill  their  names  were  stricken  off  the  roll. 
The  rise  of  real  estate  and  the  presence  of  a  market 
for  produce  are  good  things,  but  it  is  not  all  good. 
Mr.  Bitzer  is  working  with  constant  energy  to  bring 
up  the  schools,  and  to  establish  better  ones.  Miss 
House  is  giving  her  life  and  talents  to  settlement 


1 76     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

work  among  the  mill  employes,  and  with  most  satis- 
factory success.  I  hear  of  one  hopeful  sign — that 
the  mill  employes  encourage  her  work,  because  they 
say  it  improves  the  service.  That  is  the  only  streak 
of  humanity  I  discovered  there. 


The  South — Scenic  and  Educational 


STATISTICS  carry  but  little  impression.  Some 
twenty  years  ago,  visiting  the  Pacific  slope, 
I  was  deeply  conscious  that  the  descriptions 
and  appeals  of  the  Board  of  Home  Missions,  even 
the  letters  constantly  received  by  The  Interior  from 
the  field,  gave  but  a  feeble  idea  of  the  conditions 
and  the  possibilities — at  least  they  had  not  im- 
pressed me  adequately.  I  said  that  if  all  our 
membership  could  see  what  I  saw,  and  feel  what 
was  forced  upon  me,  the  treasury  of  the  Board 
would  be  filled  to  overflowing.  It  was  even  more 
affecting  to  visit  the  Southern  Highlanders  two  or 
three  years  ago.  It  makes  one's  heart  ache  to 
see  immortal  treasures  going  to  waste,  when  the 
rescue  would  come  swiftly  and  strongly  if  our  people 
could  see  for  themselves.  But  it  is  impossible  to 
carry  the  facts  to  the  mind  by  pen  or  speech — 
wholly  impossible.  One  must  see  those  boys  and 
girls  through  the  eyes  of  his  heart  before  he  can 
know.  In  the  first  place,  they  are  very  handsome — 
with  pleasant,  bright  faces,  sleeping  intelligence 
gleaming  in  their  eyes  like  a  misty  star,  shapely 
brown  bare  legs  and  feet,  agile  limbs  and  minds — 
they  are  altogether  lovely.  And  what  a  moral  and 
177 


178     Musings  by  Camp-Fir e  and  Wayside 

religious  power  for  church  and  country  lies  there 
awaiting  the  touch! 

Colonel  Minnis,  of  Knoxville,  insisted  strongly 
upon  my  visiting  Maryville  college,  though  I  needed 
rest  and  ability  to  sleep  much  more  than  college 
history.  I  must  deal  very  briefly  with  the  problem 
which  besets  Maryville.  Mr.  Than  and  Mr.  Dodge, 
and  perhaps  some  others,  made  donations  to  Mary- 
ville, on  the  understanding  that  the  institution 
should  become  white  and  black,  co-educational.  I 
see  that  it  is  claimed  that  it  always  was  so,  though 
it  must  have  been  only  nominally.  There  are  now 
some  three  hundred  and  fifty  students,  of  whom 
only  five  are  colored,  and  these  not  resident  in  the 
college  buildings.  But  these  five — about  the  aver- 
age— give  repute  to  the  institution;  students  refuse 
to  carry  its  diplomas,  go  elsewhere  to  graduate,  or 
conceal  their  abna  mater.  If  a  single  colored  girl 
were  admitted  it  would  be  the  signal  for  a  general 
dispersion,  so  I  was  assured. 

I  was  told,  when  about  to  sail  for  Europe,  that 
it  was  of  no  use  for  me  to  try  to  reconstruct  the 
continent — that  I  must  adapt  myself  to  it  as  it  is, 
and  make  myself  as  comfortable  as  possible  with 
things  as  they  are.  We  must  recognize  traditions, 
habits,  and  prejudices,  the  growth  of  centuries  in 
the  South,  if  we  would  not  be  useless  there  and 
impracticable.  I  said  to  the  brethren  that  it  was 
not  a  matter  of  other  principle  than  the  principle 


Musings  of  the  South  1 79 

of  common  sense;  that  a  principle  misapplied 
defeats  itself,  and  becomes  no  principle  in  that  par- 
ticular case.  The  trustees,  directors,  and  faculty 
are  men  of  strictest  honor,  and  would  not  violate 
an  obligation  to  save  the  college  from  failure. 
They  are  determined  to  execute  the  wishes  and 
intentions  of  the  donors  to  the  very  best  of  their 
ability  and  possibility,  but  it  is  very  literally  impos- 
sible to  follow  lines  that  are  projected  into  the 
future,  where  a  knowledge  of  its  conditions  and 
developments  cannot  be  foreseen. 

The  donors  had  in  mind  a  co-educational  work 
similar  to  that  of  Berea.  That  cannot  be  made 
successful  in  Tennessee.  The  college,  to  exist, 
must  be  practically  one  or  the  other.  It  cannot  be 
both.  Any  attempt  to  make  it  the  latter  would 
defeat  the  intentions  of  the  donors,  both  for  whites 
and  blacks.  Whatever  we  may  think  of  the  facts, 
neither  sound  judgment  nor  principle  ignores  them. 
Southern  families  will  not  send  their  sons  and 
daughters  to  an  institution  where  colored  girls  are 
admitted.  The  negroes  are  receiving  no  benefit 
from  Maryville  college.  I  particularly  noticed  the 
few  colored  boys  there — and  saw  that  they  felt  their 
isolation,  and  were  not  comfortable,  much  less 
happy.  There  is  a  fine  negro  school  near  by, 
Knoxville  College,  where  they  are  doing  excel- 
lent work.  The  trustees  will  most  scrupulously  see 
that  the  negroes  get  full  benefit;  and  they  can  best 


i8o     Musings  by  Camp-Fir e  and  Wayside 

do  it,  and  it  is  their  duty  to  do  the  best,  by  sending 
those  five  boys  over  to  Knoxville  College  and  pro- 
viding for  them  there  or  elsewhere. 

I  called  on  the  president,  Dr.  Boardman— a 
delightful  call.  He  resigns  because  of  age  and 
health.  A  refined,  scholarly,  urbane  personality 
and  character  of  the  highest  type — and  Professor 
Wilson.  Here  was  a  son  of  an  old  friend  of  my 
boyhood.  We  took  a  stroll  on  the  noble  campus — 
a  forest  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  acres.  In  a  little 
clearing  lay  the  ruins  of  an  old  cabin,  and  that 
cabin  has  a  history.  It  was  full  of  a  degraded, 
marriageless  family.  The  young  men  took  hold  of 
them  with  Christian  hands  and  helped  them  not 
only  to  a  higher  life,  but  to  high  careers  of  honor 
and  of  usefulness.  That  is  a  sample  of  what  can 
be  done  on  an  unlimited  scale. 

I  had  heard  of  a  narrow  gauge  railway  which  ran 
out  of  Johnson  City  up  the  canon  of  Watauga,  and 
was  soon  in  that  "city."  They  say  it  had  a 
"boom,"  which  left  the  people  disconsolate.  The 
"hotels"  had  a  horrible  look,  but  a  colored  boy 
took  me  to  a  private  boarding-house,  where  I  found 
every  appointment  neat,  though  humble.  Next 
morning  rose  clear  and  cool.  The  conductor  kindly 
stopped  his  train  at  the  most  favorable  point,  and 
advised  me  to  signal  him  on  his  return  in  the  even- 
ing, from  an  up-grade  or  level,  as  he  could  not 
stop  at  a  steep  descent.  The  tumbling  river  was 
partly   frozen.     Ice   cascades   hung   on    the   huge 


Musings  of  the  South 


walls.  The  sun  was  brilliant — just  the  scenes  and 
conditions  I  Jiad  been  longing  for.  On  opening  my 
camera — my  beautiful,  precious  camera — it  looked 
like  a  wreck.  I  had  a  chest  made  for  my  instru- 
ments and  plates  that  was  supposed  to  be  wrecker- 
proof.  The  chest  must  have  been  dropped  from  a 
height  on  a  rock.  The  lock  and  hinges  were 
twisted  ofif,  and  I  supposed  that  I  was  defeated. 
But  it  was  not  hopeless  after  all,  and  I  soon  got  it 
into  working  condition,  then  began  to  climb  and 
crawl  and  tug  for  position.  I  had  nothing  to  eat, 
and  the  air  was  cold  on  those  heights,  but  I  was 
enthusiastic  every  minute.  The  next  day  I  hunted 
up  Mr.  Cory,  our  Sunday-school  missionary,  and 
Mr.  Moore,  a  recent  McCormick  graduate,  pastor 
there,  and  with  a  large  lunch  basket,  Mr.  Cory 
bringing  another,  returned  to  the  canon.  Glorious 
day!  I  came  away  with  two  dozen  eight-by-ten 
exposed  plates,  skinned  shins,  briar-raked  hands, 
knees  blue  with  bruises,  the  happiest  old  man  in 
Tennessee.  I  taught  Cory  and  Moore  the  art  of 
mountain  climbing.  Cory  was  directed  to  get 
secure  footing,  Moore  to  stand  in  hand  reach  below 
him,  and  I  below  Moore.  Then  the  camera  was 
passed  up,  "Now,  gentlemen,  we  are  to  take  double 
wrist  grips  and  all  pull. "  It  worked  beautifully,  but 
Cory  thought  it  might  be  well  to  reverse  the  posi- 
tion. He  could  not  see  exactly  how  my  pulling 
helped  the  rest  of  the  chain,  but  I  did.  I  was  giv- 
ing the  rest  my  "moral  support." 


1 82     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 


At  the  mouth  of  the  canon  lie  the  Sycamore 
Shoals,  rendered  famous  by  the  assemblage  and 
mobilization  there  of  Sevier's  six  hundred  for  the 
King's  Mountain  campaign.  Each  had  a  good 
horse,  a  powder-horn,  a  buck-skin  sack  of  bullets, 
greased  patches,  and  a  block  of  parched  corn, 
cemented  with  maple  sugar.  Thus  equipped,  they 
crossed  the  mountain  and  won  the  most  glorious 
victory  of  the  Revolutionary  war.  Sevier's  tactics 
were  simple.  "When  the  redcoats  charge  bayo- 
nets, run  your  best,  but  don't  run  away. "  That  won 
the  battle.  After  running  away,  the  buck-skins 
would  reload  and  rush  back  in  a  fury  of  wrath. 
Their  losses  almost  all  came  from  refusal  to  run. 
A  clubbed  rifle  was  no  match  for  a  bayonet. 

The  handling  of  baggage  on  the  Southern  roads 
is  about  where  it  was  in  the  North  twenty  years 
ago.  A  merchant  told  me  it  was  the  same  with 
freight.  His  boxes  were  roughly  used,  and  his 
goods  not  infrequently  damaged.  The  fixtures  in 
my  camera  were  wrenched,  the  mahogany  split,  and 
it  looked  hopeless.  I  have  never  had  any  harm 
done  to  my  chest  of  tools  or  its  contents  before. 
As  for  glass  plates,  none  were  broken.  I  pack 
them  in  a  manner  that  makes  them  secure,  unless 
the  chest  itself  be  broken  in  pieces.  It  would  be 
well  if  the  railroad  authorities  would  hold  their 
employes  in  this  regard  to  a  strict  responsibility. 

I  have  not  found  any  more  beautiful  scenery 
than  this.     It  has  not  the  massiveness  and  grandeur 


Musings  of  the  South  183 

of  the  Alaskan  mountains,  but  there  are  sufficient 
of  these,  and  a  beauty  possessed  by  none  of  the 
great  ranges.  There  is  another  canon  reachable 
from  Johnson  which  rivals  the  Watauga.  I  had  no 
idea  that  such  scenery  was  within  such  convenient 
reach. 


ALASKAN      MUSI  NGS 


fl^ujsing  tl^e  ^etenteenti^ 


Snoqualmie  Falls 


MY  friend,  Dr.  Ramsay,  arranged  an  excur- 
sion for  me  to  the  Falls  of  Snoqualmie. 
I  was  fortunate  in  finding  that  the  presi- 
dent of  the  Power  Company  is  a  son  of  the  Mr. 
Baker  who  was  one  of  the  men  who  made  the 
World's  Fair  a  success — president  of  the  Board  of 
Trade,  and  of  the  Civic  Federation.  Mr.  Baker, 
Jr.,  did  everything  that  generous  hospitality  could 
do  to  make  my  visit  pleasant. 

I  never  heard  of  Snoqualmie  Falls  till  Dr.  Ram- 
say invited  me  to  visit  them.  I  undertake  to  say 
that  not  one  intelligent  person  in  a  thousand  east 
of  the  Rockies  ever  heard  of  them.  What  we  hear 
is  rather  of  the  petty  Lanterbrunnen  in  the  Alps. 
The  falls  are  twenty-two  miles  distant  from  Seattle. 
To  get  there  one  has  to  make  a  detour  by  rail  of 
fifty-two  miles.  Approaching  the  canon  one  can 
locate  the  cataract  by  the  cloud  of  mist  rising  above 
the  trees.  It  is  not  easy  to  give  an  idea  of  the  size 
of  a  river,  excepting  by  comparing  it  to  some  other 
river  mutually  known.  The  Snoqualmie  is  from 
one  hundred  and  fifty  to  three  hundred  feet  wide 
and  flows  in  a  deep  channel.  Where  it  takes  its 
bend  to  plunge  two  hundred  and  sixty-eight  feet 
187 


1 88     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

sheer  and  clear  down  into  the  canon,  I  estimated 
the  depth  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice  to  be  about 
eight  feet.  The  downward  curve,  like  that  of 
Niagara,  is  a  calm,  swift,  smooth  movement,  which 
one  would  describe  as  majestic.  Precisely  as  with 
the  plunge  of  the  Yellowstone  into  the  Grand 
Canon,  a  rock  parts  the  current,  which  unites  again 
a  few  feet  below.  I  remember  to  have  described 
the  effect  on  the  Yellowstone  Falls  as  that  of  an 
emerald  pin  fastening  a  veil.  It  is  of  no  use  to 
employ  eloquent  generalities  in  describing  such  a 
scene.  It  is  better  to  try  to  convey  as  clear  an 
impression  as  one  can  by  a  description.  The  water 
is  of  a  light  olive-green  in  color.  The  momentum 
of  the  current,  before  leaving  the  cliff,  carries  it  out 
in  a  curve.  The  rock  above  makes  a  deep  fissure 
in  the  water  as  it  falls,  and  in  this  fissure  its  green 
color  is  preserved,  while  on  both  sides  it  is  more 
white  and  dazzling  than  snow.  At  a  point  about 
fifty  feet  below,  the  rockets  begin  to  shoot  out  from 
the  main  current,  a  white  glistening  nuclei  followed 
by  fan-shaped  trails.  Further  down  the  rockets 
increase  in  number.  At  the  bottom  of  the  falls 
they  shoot  out  in  great  numbers  in  every  direction, 
some  of  them  rising  a  hundred  feet  and  striking  the 
main  falls.  The  bottom  of  the  chasm  is  a  boiling 
cauldron,  of  a  turbulence  and  of  a  whiteness  that 
is  impossible  to  describe.  It  is  whiter  than  snow, 
which  always  reflects  the  blue  or  the  leaden  light  of 
the  sky  above.     Those  leaping  waves  and  volcanoes 


Snoqualmie  Falls 


of  foam  take  their  light  from  the  sun  alone,  and  are 
therefore  as  white  as  the  sun,  and  of  a  brilliance 
to  be  seen  only  in  the  sun. 

There  is  one  other  feature  which  is  peculiar  to 
this  fall.  It  appears  about  twenty  feet  below  the 
top  and  before  the  water  has  changed  from  all 
green  to  all  white — bars  of  white  and  green  across 
the  side  of  the  cataract.  These  bars  are  about 
two  feet  wide  and  four  feet  apart.  The  nearest 
comparison  I  can  make  is  of  silken  curtains,  shading 
off  from  bright  green  at  top  into  snow-white  at  the 
fringe.  The  fall  produces  a  strong  wind,  which 
drives  the  rockets  and  other  spray  before  it.  The 
canon  is  just  like  that  of  Niagara,  only  narrower 
and  very  nearly  twice  as  deep.  By  observing  the 
movement  of  the  mist  one  perceives  that  the  air  in 
the  chasm  is  converted  into  a  "breast-wheel."  It 
is  driven  down  with  great  force  by  the  friction  of 
the  fall,  moves  down  stream  below,  curves  up  to  a 
height  above  the  level  of  the  top  of  the  fall,  and 
then  descends  again.  The  air  is  thus  a  wheel  four 
hundred  feet  in  diameter,  revolving,  as  I  have  said, 
precisely  as,  and  upon  the  same  principle  with,  a 
breast-wheel,  as  distinguished  from  an  overshot. 

The  impression  one  receives,  except  in  the 
descending  curve  at  the  top  of  the  fall,  is  not  of 
power  but  of  beauty  and  grace,  and  I  may  say,  by 
association  of  gentleness.  One  thinks  as  he  gazes 
long  at  the  scene  that  he  is  looking  upon  immacu- 
late and  unimaginable  beauty  and  grace.      As  I  said. 


iQO     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

the  idea  of  power  is  wholly  excluded  by  that  of 
beauty.  We  cannot  put  the  two  qualities  together 
very  readily  in  our  minds.  There  is  always  an  ele- 
ment of  delicacy  and  fragility  in  our  observations 
and  conceptions  of  beauty.  What  a  tremendous 
contrast,  therefore,  to  descend  the  deep,  black 
shaft  down  through  the  flinty  basaltic  rock,  two 
hundred  and  seventy  feet  to  the  chamber  below. 
This  chamber  is  the  power-room,  thirty  feet  high 
and  fifty  feet  wide,  excavated  out  of  the  rock,  with 
a  gallery  running  hundreds  of  feet  till  it  reaches  the 
air  at  the  bottom  of  the  chasm.  In  this  shaft  is  set 
a  steel  tube  eight  feet  in  diameter  which  is  to  carry 
the  water  down  to  the  motors.  At  the  foot  of  this 
tube  the  water  pressure  is  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  pounds  to  the  square  inch.  The  motors  are 
upon  an  entirely  new  principle  which  has  never 
before  been  applied.  The  principle  is  of  two  inter- 
locked turnstiles  set  in  a  circular  steel  box.  The 
water  cannot  pass  at  the  sides,  nor  above  nor  below; 
it  must  turn  the  turnstiles  to  get  through.  Each  of 
these  wheels,  which  I  compare  to  turnstiles,  weighs 
twenty-four  thousand  pounds,  and  they  are  to 
revolve  at  the  speed  of  three  hundred  and  sixty 
revolutions  per  minute. 

Now  here  is  the  contrast.  That  graceful  and 
most  beautiful  drapery  of  jeweled  lace  is  here  to 
put  forth  the  strength  of  a  hundred  thousand  horses 
and  drive  those  wheels,  weighing  twelve  tons  each, 
at   the   incredible   velocity   of    three   hundred    and 


Snoqualmie  Falls  191 

sixty  revolutions  per  minute.  The  falls  reveal  noth- 
ing but  beauty  and  glory,  dwelling  in  sparkling 
mist  and  wreathed  with  double  rainbows — such  they 
are  out  there  in  the  sun.  Fettered  down  in  that 
black  obsidian  cavern,  forced  to  plant  their  white 
feet  on  cyclopean  steps  of  steel,  they  exert  the 
energy  of  a  hundred  thousand  Vulcans. 

We  do  not  associate  qualities  so  different  from 
each  other,  not  because  they  are  logically  exclusive, 
but  because  either  of  them  absorbs  us  for  the  time. 
The  black  wheels  in  the  black  cavern  I  looked  at 
briefly,  but  I  could  sit  and  gaze  at  the  falls  for  days. 
The  energy  received  from  the  water  by  those  wheels 
is  sent  along  wires  of  aluminum  to  the  cities  of 
Tacoma,  Seattle,  and  Everett.  There  it  will  light 
up  homes  and  churches,  whirl  cars  smoothly  along 
the  streets,  weld  iron,  grind  flour,  and  in  a  hundred 
ways  relieve  aching  backs  and  arms  of  severe  toil. 

In  one  of  the  freshets,  some  years  ago,  a  two- 
story  frame  boarding-house  came  floating  down  the 
river  and  went  over  the  falls.  It  was  the  greatest 
drop  in  prunes  and  salt  mackerel  ever  known  on 
this  coast. 

My  friend,  Mr.  Davies,  an  enthusiastic  trouter, 
dressed  me  in  oiled  water-proof,  put  boots  and  hel- 
met on  me,  took  me  down  the  power-shaft,  and  out 
through  the  long  tail-race  tunnel  to  the  foamy  pool 
under  the  falls,  to  catch  trout.  The  wind  nearly 
lifted  me  off  my  feet,  the  deluging  storm  of  rain — 
the  rain-drops  big  as  walnuts — roared  on  my  helmet 


192     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

and  back,  blinded  my  eyes,  and  made  me  gasp  for 
breath.  That's  what  Davies  calls  good  trout-fish- 
ing! Davies  kept  hold  of  me  so  I  should  not  fall 
on  the  green,  slimy,  and  slippery  rocks  and  led  me 
out  to  the  water.  I  made  a  cast  and  the  snell 
danced  away  in  the  swirl,  caught  on  something,  and 
I  pulled  it  off — hook,  leader,  and  sinkers,  all  went. 
Then  I  began  to  edge  off  to  some  stairs  I  saw  farther 
down  along  the  shore  and  slowly  climbed  out — two 
hundred  feet  perpendicular  of  stairs,  twisting  out 
and  in  among  the  rocks  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  At 
the  top  I  turned  to  look  for  Davies.  There  he 
stood,  serene  as  Patience  on  a  monument,  pulling 
trout  out  of  the  swirl.  I  am  something  of  a  fishing 
crank  myself,  but  I  take  off  my  hat  to  Davies. 

He  told  me  a  story  about  Dr.  William  C.  Rob- 
erts which  I  had  not  heard  before.  His  father  and 
mother  came  from  Wales,  bringing  a  young  family 
of  six  children,  of  whom  William  C.  was  the  eldest, 
a  lad  of  fourteen.  The  mother  was  stricken  down 
and  died  of  cholera  in  New  York,  a  day  or  two  after 
they  landed.  The  father  came  down,  and  calling 
William  to  his  bedside,  told  him  that  in  a  few  hours 
he  would  be  left  in  a  strange  land  to  care  for  his 
little  brothers  and  sisters.  The  heart-broken  but 
sturdy  boy  took  the  load  on  his  young  shoulders, 
and  carried  it  successfully.  "Like  boy,  like  man." 
In  talking  of  Dr.  Roberts  we  agreed  that  this  manly 
beginning  was  worthy  of  the  manly  and  highly  use- 
ful life  that  has  followed. 


Snoqualmie  Falls  193 

Mr.  Baker  gave  us  a  beautiful  and  elegantly  fur- 
nished little  cottage — his  own.  We  dined  in  the 
rough  board  shack  where  the  workmen  and  officers 
took  their  meals.  There  was  a  bright  and  hand- 
some young  lady  sitting  next  to  me  at  table — was 
raised  in  Dr.  Hoge's  church  in  Richmond.  Won- 
dering much  how  the  young  lady  could  have  found 
her  way  from  Richmond  to  Seattle,  and  then  up  the 
Snoqualmie  Canon,  I  made  free  to  inquire.  "I  am 
electrician  to  the  Snoqualmie  Power  Company," 
she  answered,  modestly.  Her  name? — bless  me,  I 
never  thought  to  ask  her.  Pluck  and  talent  are  not 
all  north  of  the  Potomac.  Here  is  a  Richmond  girl 
proving  clear  out  here  that  "Old  Virginia  never 
tires." 

I  wanted  to  get  a  picture  of  the  snow-capped 
"Mount  Si"  (I  wonder  if  that  is  not  short  for 
Mount  Zion),  and  walked  down  the  railroad  track 
two  or  three  miles  with  my  picture  outfit  strapped 
on  my  back.  Coming  upon  a  party  of  ladies  who 
appeared  to  be  entomologizing,  I  thought  to  amuse 
them  by  asking  if  I  could  sell  them  some  "needles, 
pins,  hooks  and  eyes,  real  lace,  shoe-ties,  chewing- 
gum,  curling-irons,  bear  grease  for  the  hair,  jockey- 
club,  Brandreth's  pills,  sewing  silk — "  "No,"  said 
one,  glancing  at  my  pack,  "we  do  not  wish  to  buy 
anything,"  and  they  went  on  chattering  about  some 
unfortunate  bug  that  had  arrested  their  attention. 
I  sighed  to  think  how  much  fun  I  have  wasted  dur- 
ing a  long  life  upon  an  unappreciative  world. 


1 94     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

I  wish  to  make  acknowledgment  to  the  Rev.  Dr. 
A.  L.  Hutchison,  of  the  First  Church,  and  Rev.  W. 
A.  Major,  of  the  Second,  for  their  great  kindness  to 
me.  From  Dr.  S.  Hall  Young,  Dr.  Samuel  Ram- 
say, and  Elder  Davies  I  received  the  most  brotherly 
interest  and  hospitality.  I  was  glad  to  find  that 
my  friend,  Mr.  Baker,  of  Chicago,  had  here  a  son 
so  worthy  of  him  in  the  important  position  of  the 
presidency  of  the  Power  Company.  I  have  had  fine 
rooms  and  attention  at  the  Occidental  Hotel  at  a 
moderate  cost. 


Along  the  Northern  Line 


ONE'S  attention  is  forcibly  seized  upon  by  the 
undergrowth  in  the  forests  of  the  North- 
ern Pacific  slope,  into  which  he  is  lured 
by  trout  and  the  natural  scenery.  One  who  is  ac- 
customed to  the  willows  and  alders  and  jack-pine 
which  line  a  Wisconsin  or  Michigan  stream,  with 
many  an  open  glade  or  meadow  between,  makes 
here  his  usual  confident  dash  at  a  thicket,  but  finds 
himself  detained.  I  did  not  attempt  to  classify  the 
score  or  two  of  specimens  which  united  their  per- 
suasions, but  in  regard  to  their  general  character- 
istics there  is  no  room  for  difference  of  opinion, 
though  there  is  variety  in  the  way  of  expressing  it. 
Slender  and  tough  as  belt-lacing  and  spikey  as 
cactus,  they  first  throw  one  down  and  then  jag  him! 
There  is  a  variety  which  I  have  heard  variously 
spoken  of  as  "devil's  club"  and  "devil's  cabbage." 
I  looked  curiously  at  a  specimen,  but  did  not  be- 
come intimate  with  it.  It  is  said  to  be  a  vegetable 
scorpion. 

One  thinks  of  cedars  as  fence-posts  or  paving 

blocks.     I  never  saw  a  large  tree  of  this  species 

before.      Here  they  grow  from  four  to  six  feet  in 

diameter,  and  the  firs  easily  reach  the  height  of 

195 


196     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

from  two  hundred  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet. 
The  largest  of  these  trees  are  not  now  to  be  found 
near  to  the  railways,  having  been  sent  to  the  saw- 
mills. But  I  found  a  good  specimen  not  far  from 
the  city.  It  is  forty-four  feet  in  circumference, 
measured  ten  feet  above  the  roots.  I  desired  to 
obtain  a  good  photograph  of  it,  but  as  usual  had  no 
sunlight.  However,  I  stood  Dr.  Jackson  near  it, 
and  did  the  best  I  could  under  a  cloudy  sky,  I 
think  likely  it  will  make  a  pretty  good  engraving, 
after  all.  The  bark  is  most  massive  and  deeply 
creased.  They  are,  therefore,  not  so  easily  killed 
by  forest  fires  as  our  northern  pines. 

The  woods  are  as  white  with  dog-wood  now  as 
in  Virginia.  A  man  who  had  developed  horny  hoofs 
in  Wisconsin  would  be  regarded  as  an  infantile 
pink-toe  here.  They  know  him  by  his  look  of 
astonishment  at  the  size  of  the  firs,  and  of  the  fish- 
lies.  A  native  said  he  had  crossed  a  river  by  riding 
through  a  hollow  tree  that  had  fallen  athwart  the 
stream.  When  asked  if  it  had  been  conveniently 
broken  off  on  the  far  side,  he  said  no,  that  he  rode 
out  through  a  knot-hole.  This  was  not  told  for  a 
big  story,  it  was  told  for  a  big  fact.  There  is  a 
stream  up  in  the  mountains  from  which  a  trout  has 
never  been  landed.  They  bite  like  the — well,  you 
know  the  favorite  comparison  of  a  Rock  Mountain- 
eer— but  they  smash  every  kind  of  tackle  that  can 
be  brought  against  them.  Rods,  reels,  lines,  snells, 
and  religion  go  to  flinders.     Fish-consecrated  per- 


Along  the  Northern  Line  197 

sons  who  desire  to  be  sent  as  missionaries  to  civilize 
these  trout,  are  not  allowed  to  take  collections  in 
the  churches,  unless  they  be  ministers. 

There  is  a  noticeable  absence  of  song-birds  here, 
probably  because  of  the  density  of  the  original  for- 
ests, and  because  of  the  scarcity  of  trees  which  bear 
edible  seed.  I  have  not  heard  a  chirrup  nor  a  song 
except  from  caged  canaries.  They  are  said  to  be 
plentiful  in  the  eastern  side  of  the  ranges.  I  have 
thought,  also,  that  there  was  too  much  rain  here  to 
suit  the  birds,  but  it  is  insisted  that  the  precipita- 
tion is  but  little  in  excess  of  what  it  is  on  Lake 
Michigan.  I  have  scarcely  had  a  glimpse  of  the 
sun  in  ten  days,  though  I  have  watched  for  oppor- 
tunities with  my  camera.  Puget  Sound  is  said  to 
be  surrounded  with  snowy  mountains  in  May,  a  fact 
which  must  be  taken  upon  faith,  if  one  stays  in  one 
locality.  I  heard  of  a  Chicago  man  who  took  a 
Seattle  friend  down  to  the  shore  of  Michigan  to 
show  him  the  Alpine  peaks  at  Evanston,  Hyde 
Park,  and  across  the  lake,  but  told  him  he  could 
not  see  them  till  the  weather  cleared  up!  The 
annual  rainfall  here  is  shown  by  the  tables  to  be  an 
average  of  only  about  forty  inches.  It  is  not  much 
short  of  that  in  Illinois.  But  when  it  rains  with  us, 
it  rains.  To  find  out  if  it  be  raining  here,  one  holds 
his  bare  hand  out  from  under  his  umbrella.  There 
was  an  exception  the  day  when  the  Rev.  Drs. 
Hutchison  and  Major  took  me  out  about  a  dozen 
miles  to  catch  trout  in  a  fine,  large  lake.     All  I 


198     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

caught  was  a  ducking.  They  assure  me,  however, 
that  this  month  of  May,  1899,  is  exceptional.  The 
very,  very  old  people  here  are  Indians.  The  oldest 
Indian  says  there  has  been  no  such  cloudy  May  in 
the  last  twelve  hundred  moons.  I  was  wondering 
whether  that  old  Indian  made  his  living  by  telling 
that  story  to  strangers.  He  appeared  to  be  well 
fed  and  fat.  But  there  is  the  weather  bureau  with 
its  exact  records.  Dr.  Ramsay  stands  by  the 
Italian  skies  of  Seattle,  and  proves  it  by  the  incon- 
testable history  in  the  meteorological  records. 
Indeed,  that  is  what  the  weather  bureau  in  Seattle 
is  for.  There  is  not  enough  weather  out  of  doors 
to  meet  the  demand,  so  they  keep  a  supply  of  it  in 
cold  storage. 

The  city  of  Seattle  is  built  on  a  ridge  which  rises 
from  the  Sound  to  a  height  of  nearly  five  hundred 
feet  and  descends  to  Lake  Washington,  a  body  of 
deep  water  twenty-eight  miles  long  and  from  one  to 
three  miles  broad.  There  are  about  three  thousand 
acres  of  salt  marsh,  flooded  by  the  tide,  which  can 
be  filled  at  small  comparative  cost  and  occupied  for 
business  purposes.  Lake  Washington  offers  the 
finest  residence  district  in  the  country.  It  is 
reached  by  cable,  and  is  plied  by  small  steamers. 
A  ship  canal  utilizing  another  deep  lake — Lake 
Union — which  nearly  unites  the  fresh  water  harbor 
with  the  salt,  will  soon  be  built,  and  the  lake  will 
be  the  resting-place  for  ships  of  the  navy.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  imagine  a  more  inviting  place  for 


Along  the  Northern  Line  199 

summer  residences  than  the  wooded  slopes  and 
islands  of  Lalce  Washington. 

I  regret  that  the  uncertainty  about  the  sailing  of 
the  Bear,  which  has  already  had  three  set  days  for 
leaving,  extending  over  a  waiting  period  of  two 
weeks,  has  kept  me  too  close  here.  I  wished  to 
visit  Tacoma,  the  rival  city  of  Seattle.  A  great 
city,  ranking  with  our  largest,  will  be  built  on  this 
Sound,  and  the  site  lies  between  these  two  cities. 
The  latter  city  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  the  first 
to  report  the  Alaskan  mines,  and  the  result  has 
been  that  the  miners  rushed  to  Seattle,  and  thus  it 
won  the  distinction,  in  the  public  mind,  of  being 
the  shipping  point  for  the  North. 

The  Salvation  Army  is  here.  I  have  a  soft  spot 
in  my  heart  for  the  Salvationists.  They  preach  a 
crude  but  a  genuine  gospel.  I  always  follow  them 
and  listen  to  their  music  and  exhortations  with 
sympathy;  one  often  hears  gospel  truth  preached 
by  them  in  tenderness,  cogency,  and  even  with  true 
eloquence.  It  is  impossible  that  such  preaching 
should  not  do  vast  good.  There  is  a  coarse  and 
barren  talk  mixed  up  with  it  sometimes;  but  as  a 
rule  it  is  true  and  winsome  gospel  preaching;  and 
it  has  the  advantage  of  genuine  feeling  and  convic- 
tion back  of  it.  I  think  it  is  a  kind  of  preaching 
that  is  good  for  anybody.  Anyway  I  would  rather 
listen  to  it  than  to  some  of  the  "first-class"  preach- 
ing of  the  day.  I  remarked  to  a  friend  that  the 
best  preaching  is  heard  in  the  "country  churches." 


200     Musi7igs  by  Camp- Fire  ajid  Wayside 

With  much  earnestness  he  said  that  it  was  true. 
"The  very  best  preaching  is  in  the  country 
churches."  And  yet,  while  this  is  true,  it  is  from 
the  country  pulpit  that  the  best  of  the  city  preach- 
ers are  drafted.  A  professor  once  told  his  students 
when  they  were  called  on  to  preach  in  the  country, 
to  take  their  best  sermons  with  them;  if  in  the  city, 
to  put  on  their  best  coats. 

My  friend.  Dr.  Young,  the  good  physician, 
showed  me  his  relics  and  curios.  Some  of  them 
one  will  look  upon  with  mysterious  interest,  as  hav- 
ing unknown  tragedies  back  of  them.  One  was  a 
fusee — a  "smooth-bore  rifle"  we  used  to  call  them — 
which  he  found  on  the  top  of  a  mountain.  It  was 
made  in  1831,  a  flint-lock.  It  was  loaded,  the  fusee 
was  sprung,  but  the  upper  jaw  of  the  hammer  and 
the  flint  were  gone.  It  lay  in  a  natural  citadel  and 
the  weather-worn  stock  showed  that  it  had  been 
exposed  for  thirty  or  forty  years.  Its  owner  had 
tried  to  fire  it  before  he  dropped  it.  What  tragedy 
lay  back  of  that  old  gun? 

A  still  more  tragical  relic  is  a  chain,  made  of 
hemlock-root  bark,  which  hung  over  a  precipice  one 
hundred  and  fifty  feet,  where  it  was  broken.  The 
bottom  of  the  chasm  was  far  below  the  reach  of  the 
fragment  of  the  chain.  The  doctor  thinks  it  was 
made  by  one  of  the  early  gold  prospectors  who, 
with  the  breaking  of  the  chain,  lost  his  life.  It  was 
made  by  twisting  and  wrapping  pieces  two  and 
three  feet  long  and  joining  them  with  loops.     The 


Along"  the  Northern  Line  201 

making  of  the  chain  involved  a  great  deal  of  patient 
labor  and  it  was  skillfully  done.  He  has  also  a 
French  sword-blade,  of  fine  temper,  plowed  up  in 
Minnesota;  a  sixty-dollar  piece  of  Continental 
money,  paid  to  his  grandfather  for  service  in  the 
Revolution;  and  a  number  of  such  heirlooms.  Mrs. 
Young  has  some  very  old  chinaware,  which  she 
prizes  highly.  Most  of  us  have  little  memories  of 
sad  or  of  tender  events  in  our  own  lives,  which  mean 
much  to  us  as  husbands,  wives,  children,  or  parents, 
but  which  mean  nothing  to  others.  To  me  they  are 
evidence  of  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  immortality. 
Why  would  we  cling  to  such  mementoes  but  because 
we  instinctively  refuse  to  believe  that  anything 
human  can  perish — why  but  because  they  are  re- 
minders of  the  absent  and  inaccessible  but  living? 

In  stepping  out  of  the  elevator,  which  was  a 
little  too  high  for  the  door,  I  struck  my  head  pretty 
severely,  on  the  lintel  above.  A  pretty  miss,  of  ten, 
perhaps,  was  greatly  concerned  for  me.  She  fol- 
lowed me  out,  saying  she  was  sorry  for  me.  She 
told  me  to  take  a  silver  dollar  and  bind  it  on  the 
hurt,  and  that  would  prevent  it  from  swelling. 

"But  where  shall  I  get  the  dollar?" 

"Oh,  I  have  one;  I  will  run  and  get  it  for  you." 

I  said  "Wait  a  minute,"  while  I  searched  my 
pockets,  finding  one. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "I  think  I  know  an  improvement 
on  this  dollar  cure." 

"Oh,  if  you  do  I  wish  you  would  tell  me." 


202     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

"Why,  it  would  be  to  tie  the  dollar  on  the  place 
where  you  are  going  to  get  bumped,  before  you  get 
bumped,  to  keep  off  the  bump." 

"Oh,  yes,  if  one  only  knew, ' '  and  she  laughed  like 
bird-song.  "Tie  the  dollar  on  before  one  gets 
bumped;  oh,  my!"  and  she  laughed  again.  "But 
it  must  pain  you  dreadfully,  and  I  am  so  sorry  for 
you." 

"It  would  pain  you  dreadfully  to  get  such  a 
knock,  but  old  people  are  not  so  sensitive,"  and  I 
thanked  the  pretty  and  innocent  little  thing  for 
her  sympathy  and  kindness.  It  was  prophetic. 
How  charming  it  was,  and  how  promising  in  days 
to  come  of  a  mature  and  lovely  womanly  character. 


Aboard  the  "Bear'' 


ON  Friday,  May  26th,  we  finally  got  away 
from  Seattle,  though  I  did  not  feel  sure 
of  the  voyage  till  we  were  securely  out  of 
sight  of  land.  There  was  no  knowing  whether 
some  department  clerk  in  Washington  might  not 
accidentally  be  stricken  with  an  idea  and  wish  to 
hold  the  ship  till  he  could  have  time  to  turn  it  over 
in  his  mind.  It  is  admitted  by  all  who  know  the 
conditions  that  the  Bear  should  have  been  pawing 
her  way  northwestward  by  May  ist.  The  season 
is  short  enough  at  longest  for  the  season's  work. 
It  was  refreshing  to  find  one  man  who  knew  the 
value  of  time  in  the  arctic  empire.  When  Lieu- 
tenant Jarvis,  the  heroic  leader  of  the  rescue  of 
the  whalers,  was  notified  that  the  command  of 
this  expedition  was  assigned  to  him,  he  took  the 
cars  and  made  the  trip  across  the  continent  in  four 
days.  Instead  of  taking  time  for  personal  conve- 
nience and  preparations  he  immediately  put  to  sea, 
and  has  pushed  everything  right  along.  There  is 
business  in  that  man. 

Arriving   at   Port    Townsend   in   the  afternoon, 
some  time  was  required  for  aligning  the  compasses, 
which  is  done  by  sailing  the  ship  experimentally  till 
203 


204     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

all  the  compasses  are  correctly  adjusted.  A  squall 
from  the  west  came  up  and  the  ship  waited  till  it 
should  abate  somewhat.  On  Saturday  afternoon 
we  were  passing  out  beyond  the  cape,  and  I  went 
below  for  a  nap.  On  awakening  everything  was 
still,  and  on  going  up  on  deck,  what  was  my  aston- 
ishment to  see  that  we  were  back  at  Port  Town- 
send!  The  word  passed  that  we  were  ordered  back 
to  Seattle,  and  I  began  to  get  my  effects  ready  to 
go  ashore  there  and  give  it  up.  We  had  been 
hailed  by  some  ship  with  a  message.  It  was  soon 
attended  to,  and  again  we  started.  This  time  I 
stood  on  deck  to  see  whether  we  would  again  be 
brought  down  by  a  wing-shot  from  Washington. 
But  we  escaped  this  time,  a  fact  which  would,  if 
they  knew  it,  bring  great  rejoicing  to  the  govern- 
ment creditors  who  loaned  the  deer  which  were  used 
in  the  rescue  of  the  whalers  a  year  ago. 

Port  Townsend  is  the  saddest  example  of  a  city 
failure  I  have  seen.  It  is  situated  on  a  fine  bay, 
which  forms  an  ample  and  well-protected  harbor, 
and  is  on  the  shore  also  of  the  ocean,  the  peninsula 
on  which  the  city  is  built  extending  from  the  bay  to 
the  sea.  A  large  brick  building,  five  stories  high, 
which  occupies  full  half  a  square,  and  fronts  on 
three  streets,  is  under  roof,  the  partitions  studded, 
the  floors  partly  laid,  and  there  it  has  stood  for  years, 
unfinished  and  abandoned.  Another  very  fine  store 
block  appears  to  be  untenanted.  The  street  car 
tracks  have  been  taken  up.     We  went  to  the  parson- 


Aboard  the '' Bear''  205 

age,  and  found  the  grass  growing  through  the  steps, 
and  some  lonely  flowers  blooming  along  the  walks. 
Still  there  is  a  good  church  building  and  parsonage, 
fully  paid  for,  and  a  membership  of  about  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty.  The  city  was  projected  upon  the 
expectation  that  it  would  become  the  great  western 
entrepot.  A  very  handsome  custom-house  and  post- 
office  building,  large  enough  for  a  city  of  a  quarter 
of  a  million,  was  erected.  The  mistake  was  in  sup- 
posing that  it  would  be  reached  by  the  transconti- 
nental railways,  which  are  shut  off  from  it  by  the 
great  and  practically  unexplored  Olympic  range,  and 
by  the  Sound.  The  railroads  went  to  Tacoma  and 
Seattle,  and  between  these  two  cities  the  contest 
began  for  the  occidental  crown,  which,  from  present 
appearances,  will  be  won  by  Seattle.  Port  Town- 
send  has  no  railway  connections. 

As  we  passed  out  of  Puget  Sound,  May  27th,  we 
noticed  that  a  snow-storm  was  prevailing  in  the 
mountains.  Then  came  those  long  Pacific  swells 
possible  to  this  vast  ocean  alone.  There  was  a  stiff 
breeze,  of  which  advantage  was  taken  to  reinforce 
the  steam-power  with  the  sails,  and  the  slow  old 
cutter  bowled  along  ten  knots  per  hour,  which  is 
her  fastest.  It  was  some  consolation  to  know  that 
some  of  the  officers  and  crew  were  seasick.  It  took 
away  the  reproach  of  being  a  web-footed  tenderfoot. 

I  imagined  that  soup  and  a  squall  would  not  pull 
in  harness  together.  I  obtained  that  impression  on 
the  Atlantic  when  one  got  the  soup  in  his  lap  and 


2o6     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

put  his  spoon  to  his  ear;  but  I  watched  Dr.  Jackson 
and  Captain  Jarvis,  and  took  notes.  Manifestly- 
great  progress  has  been  made  in  this  important 
department  of  human  activity  in  the  past  eighteen 
years.  Jackson  was  nicely  balancing  his  tureen  in 
his  hand.  When  the  ship  had  made  her  dive  and 
was  balancing  for  an  instant,  then  Jackson  made 
his.  At  each  dive  of  the  Bear  I  noticed  a  marked 
subsidence  of  the  soup  in  Jackson's  tureen,  until, 
at  last,  dry  land  appeared  in  the  whole  concavity  of 
crockery.  I  am  not  going  to  theorize  whether  this 
concurrent  action  of  ship  and  soup  was  coincidence, 
or  cause  and  effect;  nor,  if  the  latter,  which  was 
which;  but  the  result  was  satisfactory  to  all  con- 
cerned. 

This  revenue  cutter  Bear  is  the  most  famous  ship 
now  in  the  service,  excepting  the  Oregon,  though 
for  very  different  reasons.  She  was  built  in  Green- 
ock, Scotland,  in  1881,  for  private  parties  in  the 
Labrador  sealing  fishery,  and  bought  by  the  United 
States  for  use  in  the  rescue  of  the  Greeley  arctic 
explorers,  which  she  accomplished.  Originally 
built  with  a  view  to  conflict  with  the  ice,  she  has 
been  further  strongly  protected  with  iron  and  teak. 
After  rescuing  Greeley  she  was  sent  to  the  Pacific 
to  protect  the  seals  and  rescue  whalers,  and  do 
general  police  duty.  Her  second  heroic  act  of  res- 
cue was  last  year,  when  the  present  Captain  Jarvis 
led  the  rescuing  party  across  the  ice — of  which 
more  anon. 


Aboard  the '' Bear''  207 

Now  a  word  about  the  reindeer.  The  American 
whalers  had  killed  off  the  sea  amphibians  on  which 
the  Alaskan  natives  subsisted,  and  in  1890  Dr. 
Sheldon  Jackson,  who  was  among  them  on  his  mis- 
sionary and  educational  duties,  found  that  they 
were  starving.  It  was  proposed  to  ask  the  govern- 
ment to  feed  them,  but  Jackson  was  opposed  to 
that,  having  seen  enough  of  the  pauperizing  of  the 
Indians  in  the  Dakotas  and  farther  west.  He  pro- 
posed the  importation  of  reindeer,  and  then  began 
the  constant  opposition  and  obstruction  against 
which  he  has  had  to  make  slow  but  sure  headway. 
The  scientific  men  of  the  departments  in  Washing- 
ton brought  forth  "facts"  to  show  that  the  plan 
was  impracticable,  i.  The  Russian  Finns  would 
not,  for  superstitious  reasons,  sell  them.  2.  The 
deer  were  so  tender  that  they  would  not  bear  trans- 
portation. 3.  The  American  natives  and  their  dogs 
would  kill  them  off.  4.  The  whole  scheme  was 
that  of  a  visionary  missionary.  Jackson  had  raised 
the  sum  of  two  thousand  dollars  in  the  spring  of 
1891,  and  the  treasury  department  gave  him  leave 
to  go  with  the  Bear  on  her  cruise.  He  bought  six- 
teen head,  and  landed  seven  at  Dutch  Harbor,  on 
the  island  of  Unalaska,  and  turned  them  loose. 
The  Aleuts,  Thlinkits,  and  Eskimo  prize  the  deer 
so  highly  that  they  will  almost  starve  before  they 
will  kill  one  for  food. 

Seasickness  is  not  favorable  to  literary  work. 
One's  head  very  soon  goes  off.     So  I  went  up  on 


2o8     Musings  by  Canip-Fire  and  Wayside 

deck  for  fresh  air.  Such  a  splendid  scene!  There 
was  the  sun  shining  clear,  and  such  a  blue  as  no 
colorist  ever  could  imagine.  It  was  as  pure  as  the 
clearest  blue  sky,  but  much  deeper  in  color.  The 
reflection  of  the  sun  was  not  a  glaring  shimmer,  but 
millions  of  points  of  brilliant  white  were  flashing 
upon  the  lustrous  and  majestic  robe  which  enfolded 
the  gentle,  heaving  bosom  of  the  sea.  Both  the 
whiteness  of  the  sun  and  the  azure  of  the  sky  were 
intensified  in  that  noblest  of  fabrics.  Verily,  the 
Draper  of  the  heavens  has  resources  for  clothing 
and  adorning  those  whom  he  loves  in  colors  and  in 
grace  worthy  of  the  court  of  Almighty  God. 

At  Seattle  Mrs.  Young,  the  happy  wife  of  a 
worthy  husband,  and  the  happy  mother  of  sons  who 
are  an  honor  to  the  name,  noticing  that  I  was  some- 
what faint,  advised  her  husband,  the  doctor,  to 
suggest  to  me  that  I  had  not  sufficient  vitality  to 
endure  so  rough  a  trip.  That  first  night  of  buffet- 
ing and  tossing,  and  of  unendurable  noises! — I  said 
the  lady  was  right.  I  never  could  survive  two 
months  of  such  horrors,  and  was  disposed  to  com- 
plain of  providence  for  inflicting  a  fine  of  five 
hundred  dollars  and  two  or  more  months  of  such 
imprisonment  upon  a  man  for  being  so  foolish;  but 
glorious  as  this  day  is,  smoothly  as  the  ship  glides 
over  the  peaceful  and  cerulean  sea,  that  pounding, 
sick,  noisy,  and  horribly  discordant  night  was 
needed  to  bring  out  to  the  full,  by  contrast,  the 
glory  of  such  a  day. 


Aboard  the  ''Bear''  209 

Those  noises  are  worthy  of  study  to  one  who 
wishes  to  describe  the  horrible.  The  propeller  is 
two-bladed,  and  they  are  not  far  from  my  berth. 
These  United  States  vessels  all  have  the  captain's 
quarters  at  the  stern,  close  over  the  wheel.  Those 
blades,  when  lifted  out  by  the  pitching  of  the  ship, 
struck  the  water  with  a  singularly  energetic  swish 
and  smash,  a  loud  and  tearing  sound.  Then  there 
was  a  gurgling  and  strangling  and  coughing  of 
water  in  pipes.  Then  there  was  a  truly  infernal 
tambourine  somewhere,  that  responded  to  each  blow 
with  a  crash,  followed  by  a  long  trill,  just  like  a 
tambourine  which  one  could  imagine  that  the  devil 
invented,  not  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  music,  but 
for  the  torture  which  it  would  inflict  on  every  one 
else.  I  made  search  for  that  tambourine  next  day, 
and  found  it.  It  was  a  sheet  of  zinc  fastened  upon 
a  wooden  frame  four  feet  square,  and  which  the 
"boy"  had  put  out  of  the  way  by  setting  it  behind 
the  steam-heating  pipes.  I  also  drove  the  plug  in 
the  wash-basin  and  stopped  that  gurgling  and  chok- 
ing. The  wheel  is  now  keeping  below  the  surface 
where  it  belongs,  and  is  attending  to  its  business  in 
a  respectable  manner. 

That  horribly  noisy,  seasick,  tempestuous,  and 
despairing  night,  I  was  led,  as  a  last  resort,  to  put 
some  Christian  Science  into  practice,  against  the 
whole  situation.  I  had  fallen  into  an  uneasy  sleep 
and  imagined  that  I  was  trying  to  ride  a  sorrel 
horse.     That  horse  would  go  like  the  mischief  a 


2IO     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

little  way,  then  stop  suddenly  and  buck.  At  last 
he  threw  me,  and  when  I  struck  the  ground  I  found 
myself  jammed  against  the  berth-rail.  There! 
The  glorious  truths  of  Mrs.  Eddy  flashed  upon  me 
like  a  red-fire-raining  sky-rocket.  There  wasn't 
any  sorrel  horse.  The  sorrel  horse  didn't  buck. 
The  whole  thing  was  a  seasick  phantasm,  or  would 
have  been  if  I  had  been  seasick — which  I  wasn't — 
it  was  all  a  delusion,  a  sort  of  diabolical  mirage, 
a  phosphorescent  deglutition  of  the  //  by  a  tenuous 
and  sublimated  vacuity.  I  grabbed  the  berth-rail 
on  one  side,  and  the  hat-peg  on  the  other,  and  rose 
to  the  occasion.  "Avaunt!"  I  cried,  "thou  odylic 
bedevilment,  thou  exsufflated  banshee,  thou  shriek- 
ing pandemonium,  get  out!  Scat!  Take  thy  beak 
from  out  my  heart  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my 
door!" 

It  must  have  been  my  fault;  every  truly  scien- 
tific Scientist  will  say  that  it  was,  but  the  exorcism 
did  not  work  worth  a  cent.  "Swish-whack!"  went 
the  propeller  with  a  force  that  made  the  ship 
resound.  "Whang-ze-ze-e-e-e!"  went  that  cross 
between  a  gong  and  a  tambourine.  "Uggle-uggle- 
ach-whee!"  went  the  water-pipe.  Each  of  all  three 
was  putting  in  its  best  licks  in  the  devil's  oratorio, 
and  paid  not  the  least  attention  to  my  Christian 
Science. 


^Win^  tl^e  Ctoentjetl^ 


Alaskan  Volcanoes 


THE  wind  was  dead  ahead  all  the  way  for  five 
or  six  days,  and  the  Bear,  not  built  for 
speed,  pounded  her  way  along  against  it, 
bumping  into  the  swells,  making  only  five  knots 
per  hour  part  of  the  time.  But  on  the  third  there 
Was  sunlight,  and  I  was  up  early  to  see  whether 
I  could  recognize  the  sun,  whether  it  had  grown 
old  and  wrinkled  since  I  last  saw  it  east  of  the 
Rockies.  There  were  whales  sporting  here  and 
there,  among  them  two  fin-backs,  which  were  going 
with  great  energy,  their  black  spikes  rising  three 
or  four  feet  above  the  water.  I  had  taken  the 
gomie  gulls  under  my  care,  and  counted  them 
over  and  over  for  fear  I  should  lose  some  of 
them.  There  were  twenty-seven  in  all  who  called 
faithfully  for  breakfast,  lunch,  and  dinner.  I  had 
been  reading  up  what  I  could  find  about  soar- 
ing birds,  and  now  had  an  opportunity  to  observe 
closely,  for  these  great  brown  gulls,  with  long,  nar- 
row, saber-like  wings,  became  very  tame,  and  would 
pass  me  at  a  distance  of  only  fifteen  or  twenty  feet. 
There  was  one  large  fellow  with  a  slight  fray  in  his 
right  wing,  by  which  I  could  distinguish  him.  The 
wind  blew  pretty  strong,  but  he  would  move  against 

211 


2 1 2     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

it  for  half  an  hour,  circling  around  and  keeping 
pace  with  the  ship  without  making  a  stroke  with  his 
wings.  He  disproved  every  theory  I  had  read. 
The  nearest  I  could  come  to  a  theory  was  by  notic- 
ing that  when  he  turned  away  from  the  wind  he  lay 
on  one  side,  one  wing  nearly  perpendicular  below 
and  the  other  on  a  line  with  it  above,  and  both  flat 
against  the  wind.  He  would  be  driven  leeward 
with  the  full  speed  of  the  wind,  and  then  turn  upon 
a  level  keel  and  shoot  on  a  down  incline  faster  than 
the  wind.  When  he  faced  it  again,  his  wings,  thin 
and  sharp,  cut  it  like  blades,  and  he  would  hold  his 
course  as  long  as  he  made  progress  against  it.  I 
noticed  him  very  close  to  me  when  his  momentum 
was  nearly  exhausted.  There  was  a  quiver  or 
tremor  of  his  wings,  then  he  would  throw  himself 
flatly  against  the  wind  again  and  fall  off.  Now, 
while  this  explains  acquisition  and  economy  of 
energy,  and  shows  that  he  could  sustain  himself 
with  the  minimum  of  muscular  exertion,  it  does  not 
solve  the  problem,  which  appears  to  me  inexplic- 
able. 

On  the  3d  the  sun  set  at  8:28,  and  the  afterglow 
continued  for  something  over  two  hours.  The  sea 
became  very  smooth,  the  sun  found  room  among 
the  clouds.  There  was  a  fine  sunset  and  the  sea 
was  highly  phosphorescent — that  pale,  luminous, 
ghostly  glow  which  Coleridge  so  weirdly  described 
in  his  Ancient  Mariner.  On  the  evening  of  the 
4th  there  was  a  line  of  clear  sky  along  the  western 


Alaskan  Volcanoes  213 

horizon,  from  which  the  sun  illuminated  the  under 
side  of  the  clouds,  which  gave  us  another  exhibition 
of  the  wonders  of  color  in  the  sea.  It  was  of  an 
indescribably  lustrous  purple,  with  more  of  red  than 
of  blue  in  the  color.  At  a  certain  angle  of  the 
waves  this  purple  changed  instantly  to  a  brilliant 
green.  Near  the  ship,  covering  from  fifty  to  one 
hundred  feet  wide,  and  many  times  as  long,  over 
this  billowy  robe  was  thrown  a  lace-work  more  than 
snowy  in  whiteness  of  foam,  not  in  masses,  but  thin 
and  fleecy  as  lace;  one  might  compare  it  to  lace 
over  silk,  if  the  finest  colors  and  surfaces  possible 
to  human  skill  could  bear  any  comparison  to  this, 
but  to  use  such  fine  fabrics  for  illustration  is  only 
to  cheapen  the  scene  described. 

On  the  morning  of  the  5th  I  was  awakened  at 
five  o'clock  to  see  the  Alaskan  volcanoes.  Shishal- 
don  rose  nine  thousand  feet,  apparently  right  out 
of  the  sea,  his  snowy  robe  trailing  in  the  waves — 
really  he  is  considerably  inland.  The  mountain  is 
a  sharp  and  perfectly  symmetrical  cone,  with  a 
black  cap  and  a  white  plume.  East  of  it  were  twin 
cones,  close  together,  and  sharp  as  snow  crystals. 
West  were  another  pair,  and  these  shining  in  the 
sun  seemed  to  be  pyramids  with  flat  sides.  One  of 
them  had  a  tall  pillar  at  its  top,  like  a  white  monu- 
ment, both  were  sharp  topped,  and  as  symmetrical 
as  crystals.  All  the  long  forenoon,  from  five 
o'clock  till  one,  we  were  passing  these  objects,  in 
which   beauty  surpassed  grandeur.      The  last  spe- 


214     Mtisings  by  Camp-Fzi^e  and  Wayside 

cially  striking  beauty  that  we  saw  was  an  "ice  castle" 
at  the  summit  of  one  of  the  mountains,  the  perpen- 
dicular sides  of  which  were,  we  judged,  not  less 
than  five  hundred  feet — possibly  more  than  twice 
that.  It  was  suggested  that  the  sides  were  of 
icicles  from  the  melting  snow  on  its  table-like  top. 
Nearer  view  also  brought  out  the  vast  snow-fields 
on  the  lower  levels  of  the  mountains.  All  admitted 
that  they  had  never  seen  any  object  so  strangely 
beautiful  as  that  ice  castle,  or  vast  altar,  or  what- 
ever the  fancy  chose  to  associate  with  it.  The 
precipitous  form  of  the  sea-cliffs  attracts  attention. 
One  of  these  displayed  a  long  mountain  with  its  end 
cut  off  sharply  and  perpendicularly,  leaving  a  cliff 
not  less  than  two  thousand  feet  high.  There  is  no 
talus,  no  beach  under  them.  The  explanation  of 
all  this  came  to  us  as  we  approached  the  straits 
through  which  we  were  to  pass  to  the  north  of  the 
Aleutian  chain  of  islands.  We  had  been  floating  in 
a  peaceful  sea,  which  was  dimpling  and  wrinkling 
in  the  bright  sunlight,  when  as  we  approached  the 
pass,  the  heavy  ship  rolled  till  she  dipped  her  boats. 
This  long  chain  of  islands,  as  you  know,  reaches 
nearly  across  the  Pacific.  There  is  a  long  west- 
ward trend  of  the  continent,  ending  in  the  Alaskan 
peninsula,  from  the  point  of  which  the  sea  has  cut 
these  islands.  Thus  when  the  tide  rises,  it  piles 
up  along  the  peninsular  coast,  rushes  westward,  and 
attempting  to  break  through  into  Bering  Sea,  there 
is  tremendous  uproar  and  turmoil  even  in  calmest 


Alaskan  Volcaitoes  215 

weather.  It  is  this  that  has  undercut  the  moun- 
tains and  left  the  cliffs,  breaking  off  like  bergs  from 
a  glacier,  a  sheer  perpendicular.  We  came  quite 
near  to  a  second  volcano — I  forgot  to  inquire  its 
name — which  is  not  of  much  importance  when  we 
remember  that  there  are  sixty-five  volcanoes  in 
Alaska  and  its  islands.  The  black  patch  on  the 
summit,  from  which  smoke  was  issuing,  was  not  so 
large  as  the  black  hood  of  Shishaldon,  nor  is  it  so 
sharp  and  striking  in  form. 

I  have  been  describing  only  the  terminal  range 
of  the  unequaled  scenery  of  the  east  Alaskan 
coast,  of  which  I  have  only  yet  seen  this  much. 
Now  there  is  nothing  in  Europe  comparable  to  the 
scenes  I  have  been  describing.  Mont  Blanc  is 
a  huge,  round  pile  of  snow.  It  is  higher  than  Shi- 
shaldon, but  it  does  not  appear  to  be  half  as  high, 
for  the  reason  that  it  rises  from  an  elevated  table- 
land, while  of  this  mountain  is  seen  its  whole  height 
from  sea  level.  Another  element  of  apparent  great 
height  is  the  clearly  cut  outline  rising  at  a  sharp 
angle  to  a  sharp  point.  These  volcanoes,  built 
from  the  top,  are  at  an  angle  more  acute  than  one 
could  make  of  a  pile  of  earth  or  sand,  for  the  rea- 
son that  they  are  eternally  frozen.  The  detritus 
thrown  out  by  the  crater  is  locked  securely  and  for- 
ever where  it  falls.  So  the  whole  effect  is  peculiar 
and  unique. 

"Now  we'll  catch  it!"  some  one  sang  out,  and 
then  the  ship  was  balancing  on  the  top  of  a  huge 


2 1 6     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

swell,  parallel  with  its  crest,  while  to  the  right  was  a 
yawning  chasm.  We  did  catch  it.  I  was  sitting  on 
a  cannon  and  holding  fast  to  the  guard-rail.  The 
sky-lights  of  the  officers'  cabin  had  been  lifted. 
There  was  a  great  crash  down  there,  followed  by 
shouts  of  laughter.  The  gentlemen  in  the  room 
had  no  notice  of  what  was  coming,  as  we  on  deck 
had,  and  I  suppose  they  were  all  mixed  up  with 
chairs  and  other  movables,  and  the  compound  piled 
up  on  the  port  side  of  the  cabin. 

Passing  the  maelstrom  strait  we  came  into 
smoother  water.  To  the  left  lay  "English  Bay," 
a  small  cove,  so  named  because  Captain  Cook  win- 
tered there  in  1774.  If  he  had  gone  around  to  the 
headland  he  would  have  found  a  harbor  than  which 
none  could  be  better  protected  from  both  winds 
and  waves.  First  we  passed  up  a  bay  protected  by 
the  sheer  mountains  on  all  sides  but  the  north; 
some  two  miles  farther  in  a  dyke  of  sand  runs 
nearly  across  the  bay,  long,  narrow,  and  straight, 
a  work  of  natural  engineering.  This  closes  out  the 
sea-waves  effectually.  A  mountain  spur  then 
divides  the  bay  into  two  close  harbors,  Unalaska 
and  Dutch  Harbor.  The  former  connects  by  a 
deep  channel  into  a  third  harbor,  and  this  is  con- 
nected with  the  sea  two  or  three  miles  west  of  the 
main  entrance.     What  a  natural  Gibraltar  is  here! 

It  has  been  said  that  sub-arctic  flowers  have  no 
perfume.  But  the  hills  around  Dutch  Harbor  are 
as  fragrant  of  blooms  as  an  apple  orchard  in  May. 


Alaskan  Volcanoes  217 

Even  the  violets  have  their  peculiarly  delicate  per- 
fume in  richer  measure  than  those  farther  south. 
The  day  following  our  arrival  was  one  of  sunshine 
in  its  perfection.  The  low  mountains  all  around  us 
were  flecked  with  snow.  The  air  was  cool  but 
inspiring,  and  of  perfect  clearness.  The  soil  is  as 
deep  as  the  best  in  Dakota— three  feet  of  rich,  black 
loam.  This  is  covered  with  a  blanket  of  mosses 
and  grasses,  compact  as  the  fur  on  a  reindeer's 
back.  Lie  down  upon  it  and  you  sink  into  the  soft- 
est of  beds.  There  were  about  a  dozen  quite  fat 
porkers  wallowing  in  a  slough.  I  noticed  one 
which  was  more  fastidious  in  his  taste,  rooting  out 
for  himself  a  cool,  moist  bed,  and  stretching  him- 
self in  it  with  a  comfortable  sigh.  This,  mind  you, 
on  one  of  the  "barren,  bleak,  inhospitable  Aleutian 
Islands"  on  June  6th.  "Of  course  these  islands 
will  be  populated,"  said  Dr.  Jackson.  And  of 
course  they  will  be.  And  he  is  the  pathfinder  for 
a  happy  people — made  their  existence  inevitable 
when  he  turned  loose  here  his  first  cargo  of  rein- 
deer. There  is  too  much  fury  for  trade  and  gold 
for  attention  to  the  resources  in  subsistence,  just 
now,  but  they  are  here.  Just  beyond  the  sand- 
dyke,  yonder,  you  can  go  and  pull  out  a  cutter-load 
of  codfish  and  halibut,  weighing  up  to  twenty 
pounds,  the  meat  white,  tender,  and  about  equal  to 
the  Lake  Superior  whitefish.  The  bottom  appears 
to  be  paved  with  sole-fish.  This  soil  would,  I 
should  think,  yield  potatoes  and  all  the  root  crops. 


2i8     Musings  by  Camp-Fir e  and  Wayside 

and  small  fruits,  bunch  beans,  peas,  and  other  quick 
producers.  I  notice  some  gardening  already  among 
the  natives.  Then  the  reindeer  for  milk,  meat,  and 
the  best  of  clothing  for  such  a  climate — of  course 
these  islands  will  be  populated. 

I  was  looking  about  for  a  stake-claim,  and  openly 
proclaiming  my  purpose  to  settle  on  this  mossy, 
sunny,  and  noble  chain  of  sub-arctic  islands,  and 
"grow  up  with  the  country."  They  laughed  at  that 
and  asked  me  to  wait  a  bit — not  to  jump  to  conclu- 
sions. The  next  day,  the  wind  coming  from  the 
same  quarter  and  bringing  oceans  of  sunlight  on  its 
cerulean  back,  there  came  a  cold,  penetrating 
drizzle.  Over  my  vest  I  drew  a  sweater,  over  that 
my  coat,  then  an  overcoat,  and  over  all  a  blue 
mackintosh,  buttoning  to  my  ankles,  also  shaker 
socks,  winter  shoes  of  double  soles  and  double 
uppers,  a  pair  of  fleece-lined  mittens,  and  a  plush 
cap.  The  whole  outfit  was  not  too  much  for  this 
land  of  sunshine  and  of  perfume!  Then  I  began  to 
suspect  why  they  laughed.  When  one  wants  the 
facts  let  him  ask  an  unsophisticated  boy  or  girl. 
"How  much  such  weather  as  yesterday  do  you  have 
here?"  The  youth  looked  down  reflectively,  and 
answered,  "Well,  I  think  three  or  four  days  in  a 
month;  that  is,  in  summer."  "Well,  if  I  should 
ask  you  what  kind  of  a  day  this  is,  what  would  you 
say?"  Glancing  around  at  the  sky,  he  said,  "Oh, 
I'd  call  it  fairish — as  good  as  the  most  that  we 
get. ' ' 


Alaskan  Volcanoes  219 


As  we  steamed  along  in  the  sunlight,  and  espe- 
cially when  looking  at  the  superbAleutian  pano- 
rama, Captain  Jarvis  frequently  remarked,  "This 
is  rare.  I  have  been  along  this  coast  many  times 
in  the  past  dozen  years,  but  I  never  saw  the  air  as 
clear  as  it  is  now. "  Others  who  had  come  that  way 
before  had  never  seen  the  snowy  volcanoes  at  all. 
"Too  much  rain,  not  enough  sunlight,"  is  the 
answer  to  my  agricultural  enthusiasm.  I  recalled 
those  Sahara-like  great  plains  of  the  Columbia,  too 
arid  even  for  sage-brush,  but  fertile  under  irriga- 
tion, and  thought  that  if  we  could  discover  some 
way  of  averaging  the  two,  we  should  make  homes 
for  another  fifty  millions.  The  vast  evaporating 
surface  of  the  Pacific,  especially  of  the  north  tropic, 
loads  the  air  with  water,  which  is  carried  northward 
on  its  upper  currents  and  precipitated  here  and 
farther  north.  The  North  Pole  is  the  tent-pole  of 
the  earth.  The  rain  and  snow  poured  upon  the 
white  canvas  of  the  arctic  are  sufficient  to  fill  that 
great  sea-river  upon  which  icebergs  are  floated 
down  the  Atlantic  coast.  They  have  carried 
enough  of  rocks  and  detritus  from  the  arctic  shores 
to  fill  the  sea  and  create  the  wide  shallows  of  New- 
foundland, and  will  in  time  pile  the  banks  as  high 
as  bergs  can  float. 

I  asked  an  Aleut  what  was  the  word  in  his  lan- 
guage for  his  child,  a  little  girl,  "Gedawter."  I 
made  him  say  it  over,  putting  my  ear  near  his  mouth 
to  catch  the  exact  articulation.     I  asked  if  he  had 


2  20     Mtistngs  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

not  taken  that  from  the  Russian  or  the  English. 
No,  it  was  Aryan.  Those  people  once  milked  cows, 
and  then,  perhaps,  reindeer — if  there  are  other  such 
words,  and  this  one  only  an  accidental  occurrence. 
There  is  no  doubt  whatever  of  their  ethnical  type. 
They  are  Mongol-Tartars.  If  the  gospel  had  been 
given  to  them  before  a  mixture  of  priestcraft  and 
Russian  barbarism,  they  would  now  be  fit  citizens 
of  the  United  States.  The  cruelty  of  the  Russians 
was  quite  equal  to  that  of  the  Spaniards.  It  was  a 
favorite  sport  with  them  to  set  a  line  of  Aleuts  close 
together  for  the  trial  of  their  rifles,  to  see  how 
many  of  them  one  bullet  would  shoot  through — 
how  many  they  could  kill  at  one  shot.  As  for  the 
women,  they  would  take  them  on  their  ships,  and 
when  through  with  them,  pitch  them  overboard. 
And  yet,  the  Aleuts  here  are  the  most  priest-ridden 
churchmen.  The  fine  and  exquisitely  built  Greek 
church  here  pays  a  surplus  of  four  thousand  dollars 
a  year  to  the  patriarch  in  Moscow.  There  is  a 
Methodist  mission  here,  the  "Mary  Lee  Home." 
They  have  only  an  average  of  eighteen  to  twenty 
children  in  their  schools.  I  suppose  they  do  some 
good.  The  Greek  priest  speaks  no  English,  but  he 
was  very  accommodating,  allowing  me  to  take  a 
picture  of  the  interior  of  the  church.  The  Aleuts 
revere  the  name  of  George  Washington — are  taught 
that  he  was  a  high  dignitary  in  the  Greek  church. 
He  was  a  soldier-priest  who  whipped  the  hated 
English.     They  are  taught  to  believe  in  the  devil, 


Alaskan  Volcanoes 


and  that  he  comes  here  twice  a  year  in  the  form  of 
a  Presbyterian  who  calls  himself,  when  in  human 
form,  Sheldon  Jackson!  He  comes  here  to  pick 
up  all  the  souls  not  enfolded  in  the  church  and 
carry  them  away  with  him  to  hell.  Poor  Jackson! 
No  man  in  this  century  has  endured  more  hardship 
for  Christ  than  he,  and  no  American  minister  will 
leave  so  enduring  a  fame  as  he. 


ja^ujsing  ti^e  Ctnent^-fitjst 


Dutch  Harbor 


MY  time  had  been  cut  into  by  the  delays  in 
sailing,  which  extended,  one  after  an- 
other, from  May  8th  to  26th.  I  could 
not  go  on  with  the  Bear  with  any  certainty  of 
being  able  to  take  the  most  interesting  part  of 
the  voyage,  that  along  the  Alaskan  coast.  Be- 
sides I  knew  that  the  warm  ocean-current  which 
streams  up  along  the  Asian  coast  and  meets  the 
trade-winds  which  come  from  the  polar  ice, 
must  make  that  part  of  the  Pacific  steam  like  a 
boiling  pot.  The  sailors  who  had  been  there  said 
the  fog  is  eternal.  As  between  the  Kamchatkan 
coast  and  the  Alaskan,  between  which  I  had  to 
choose,  the  interest  was  largely  with  the  latter.  I 
could  not  have  both.  The  mail-boat  reaches  Dutch 
Harbor  once  a  month,  and  I  decided  to  wait  and 
take  passage  on  her.  She  would  poke  her  nose 
into  every  nook  of  the  coast  from  Unalaska  to 
Juneau.  Having  the  best  part  of  a  month  for  the 
run  she  would  take  her  time.  Then  I  could  have 
the  White  Pass  into  the  gold  diggings,  hundreds  of 
glaciers,  including  the  Muir,  and  the  famous  inside 
passage  home. 

So  I  deserted  Jackson.      He  said  he  felt  like  an 


Dutch  Harbor  223 


orphan.  At  Juneau  I  heard  of  the  attacks  made 
upon  him  by  the  gang  against  whose  evil  purposes 
he  has  stood  all  these  years  like  a  rock.  He  can 
well  afford  the  hatred  of  such  men.  Every  new 
attack  that  they  make  upon  him  is  a  further  evi- 
dence of  his  courage  and  fidelity.  Their  rage  only 
makes  his  usefulness  to  the  country  conspicuous, 
as  the  surf  marks  the  granite. 

Now  permit  me  to  recur  to  Dutch  Harbor  and 
its  surroundings.  These  little  experiences  do  not 
amount  to  anything  in  themselves.  They  are  not 
worth  relating  except  that  they  give  impressions  of 
the  country. 

One  gets  but  little  variety  in  journeying  along  a 
line  of  latitude.  For  contrasts  he  must  go  to  the 
arctics  or  to  the  tropics.  For  brilliance  and  gran- 
deur one  must  go  north.  This  is  not  denying  the 
attractions  of  the  sultry  lands  south  of  us;  but  if 
one  desire  to  enjoy  his  life  let  him  take  the  cool, 
bracing  ozonic  air  of  the  north.  A  goodly  part  of 
the  time,  in  June  and  July,  I  dressed  more  warmly 
than  I  do  in  Chicago  in  January.  Heavy  under- 
clothing, coat,  overcoat,  and  on  top  of  these  a  wind- 
and-rain-proof  mackintosh.  When  I  left  the  Aleu- 
tian Islands  they  were  white  and  purple  with  bloom, 
and  fragrant  as  an  orchard.  I  gathered  and  pho- 
tographed a  bunch  of  the  flowers  which  whiten 
the  islands.  There  is  a  great  variety  in  reds  and 
purples,  but  as  those  colors  take  black  in  the 
camera   I   did   not   try   to   reproduce   them.      Such 


2  24     Mtisings  by  Camp- Five  and  Wayside 

water  can  be  found  to  drink  nowhere  else.  It  does 
not  have  the  harsh  coldness  of  ice-water,  but  it  is 
ice-cold.  One  who  is  not  very  thirsty  will  drink  it 
for  the  deliciousness  of  it.  I  think  its  peculiarly 
invigorating  qualities  are  absorbed  as  it  lies  months 
and  even  years  on  the  snowy  summits,  drinking  in 
sunshine.  It  comes  leaping  and  singing  down  from 
the  snow  everywhere,  and  is  as  full  of  vigor  as  it  is 
of  beauty.      I  never  tasted  such  water  before. 

That  great,  green  mountain  which  reaches  out 
from  Dutch  Harbor  three  miles  to  the  sea  ought  to 
be  named  Reindeer  Mountain,  for  there  is  where 
they  are.  While  looking  at  them,  a  white  satin 
ribbon  was  visible  across  the  western  bay,  dropping 
from  the  side  of  that  extinct  volcano  into  the  sea. 
I  think  that  huge  crater  holds  a  lake,  and  that  the 
white  stream  is  its  outlet;  and  wished  much  to 
cross  over  and  take  a  closer  look  at  its  course.  So 
I  persuaded  an  Aleutian  fisherman  to  take  me  in  his 
rowboat,  for  which  he  had  a  very  ragged  sail.  It 
was  a  long  pull  down  the  harbor.  As  we  passed 
some  Aleut  fishermen,  who  were  catching  cod,  some 
conversation  in  Aleut  passed.  I  asked  him  what 
they  said.  "They  said,  'Be  careful  about  the 
whales.'  "  While  strolling  along  that  coast  I 
noticed  many  whales  spouting  and  rolling  in  their 
dignified  way.  As  we  approached  the  open  sea  the 
Aleut  went  ashore  and  put  about  two  hundred 
pounds  of  stones  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat  for 
ballast.     The  sea  was  rather  rough  for  a  rowboat 


Dutch  Harbor  225 


like  ours,  but  I  like  rough  water.  He  tried  to  get 
far  enough  out  to  tack  and  use  his  old  sail,  but  had 
to  give  it  up  and  pull  away.  The  end  of  the  big 
mountain  is  cut  squarely  off,  and  I  tried  to  interest 
myself  in  the  tremendous  cliff.  I  told  him  to  go 
nearer  shore  so  that  I  could  see  it  better.  He  said 
the  surf  would  swamp  us.  At  last  we  were  near  the 
bay.  Then  I  asked  what  the  fishermen  meant  by 
telling  him  to  be  careful  about  the  whales.  "Why, 
they  will  smash  our  boat  if  they  see  us. "  Here  was 
a  pretty  pickle!  Surf,  sea,  and  whales:  take  your 
choice;  no  extra  charge.  "But,"  he  continued,  "if 
you  come  near  a  whale  you  must  lay  down  your  oars 
and  remain  as  still  as  a  log.  He  thinks  your  paddle 
is  a  whale's  arm  raised  to  strike  him,  and  that  makes 
him  want  to  fight.  If  he  rises  close  to  you,  reach 
out  your  hand  and  lay  it  upon  him  gently.  He 
likes  that,  and  he  will  blow  water  all  over  you  and 
then  sink.  It  is  a  shame!  it  is  a  shame!"  he  con- 
cluded, in  a  loud  voice.  "What  is  a  shame?" 
"Look  there!  thousands  of  them!  Damn  the 
whales!" 

I  began  to  feel  a  little  chilly.  The  sea  breeze 
was  pretty  strong  and  cool.  There  was  a  long  reef 
ahead  with  a  gap  in  it,  and  I  asked  him  if  we  had 
not  better  try  to  go  through  it.  "Ah,  ha!"  he 
yelled;  "there  is  a  fight!"  and  the  boatman's  eyes 
sparkled.  "That's  good!  Hit  him  again!"  he 
shouted.  I  had  noticed  that  the  boatman's  favor- 
ite expression  of  disapproval  or  dislike  was,  "It  is 


2  26     M^isings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

a  shame !"  but  whenever  he  alluded  to  whales  it  was 
with  cuss  words.  I  did  not  hear  him  swear  once  in 
the  two  or  three  days  I  had  him,  and  he  never 
cussed  unless  something  came  up  about  the  whales. 
They  had  smashed  a  boat  for  him  and  had  given 
him  a  close  call  for  his  life,  and  he  was  exceedingly 
wroth  at  them. 

There  was  a  fight,  sure  enough.  Now  it  is  curi- 
ous that  no  one,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  so  much  as 
alluded  to  the  battles  between  male  whales,  whether 
in  books  of  biology,  travel,  or  general  literature. 
They  are  not  fish.  They  are  mammals,  and  as  with 
all  other  mammals,  including  man,  the  males  f^^ht 
each  other.  "Let  us  get  closer,"  I  said.  "They 
will  pay  no  attention  to  us  now,"  and  so  we  pulled 
for  the  scene  of  conflict,  keeping,  however,  at  a 
prudent  distance.  I  believe  the  blows  the  comba- 
tants gave  could  have  been  heard  two  miles  away. 
One  would  dive  so  as  to  give  full  swing  to  his  tail — 
ten  or  fifteen  feet  of  it — in  the  air,  and  bring  it 
down  on  his  opponent  with  a  resounding  smash. 
The  other  would  catch  the  diver  rising,  and  lifting 
his  arm  high  in  the  air,  deal  him  a  tremendous 
blow.  Both  kept  spouting  and  emitting  a  sound 
not  so  loud  as  that  of  a  locomotive  whistle,  but  in 
the  same  key.  They  made  the  sea  boil  into  foam. 
They  kept  it  up  about  twenty  minutes.  We  gave 
up  the  idea  of  crossing  the  sound  to  the  waterfall, 
but  lifting  the  ragged  sail,  scudded  down  along  the 
coast  till  we  found  a  cove,  and  there  spread  out  on 


Dutch  Harbor  227 


the  clean  rocks  a  lunch,  enough  for  half  a  dozen. 
They  believe  in  good  eating  and  plenty  of  it — do 
Mr.  Brown  and  Captain  Nice  of  Dutch  Harbor.  It 
was  rash  to  go  out  into  the  open  sea  along  a  precipi- 
tous and  surfy  shore  in  a  rowboat,  especially  such 
a  one,  when  white-caps  were  blowing,  and  I  prom- 
ised myself  to  be  more  prudent;  but  it  required  a 
sharper  lesson  to  teach  me  that  I  am  neither  young 
nor  a  mountaineer.  I  have  been  looking  for  a 
memorandum  of  the  name  of  the  captain  of  that 
new  Yukon  River  steamboat  which  was  making  trial 
trips  at  Dutch  Harbor,  but  have  lost  it.  He  was 
very  kind,  and  took  me  with  him  on  his  fine  new 
boat  whenever  I  wished  to  go.  He  was  going  up 
the  channel  five  or  six  miles  to  the  temporary  ship- 
yard, and  I  went  along.  A  fine,  foamy  river  ran 
out  of  the  mountains  there,  and  some  one  told  me 
there  was  a  waterfall  three-quarters  of  a  mile  back, 
and  that  a  trail  led  to  it.  With  my  camera  strapped 
to  my  back  I  started  off  at  once.  I  heard  after- 
ward that  some  one  said,  "That  old  man  will  have 
a  bad  time  of  it,"  as  I  disappeared  in  the  ravine. 
He  ought  to  have  called  me  back.  The  trail  was  a 
narrow  and  thin  path.  I  followed  it  till  it  came  to 
where  the  river  had  curved  and  cut  into  the  moun- 
tain, and  I  thought  I  saw  the  trail  along  the  side  of 
the  precipice  from  twenty  to  fifty  feet  above  the 
stream.  The  fact  was  it  was  a  low-water  trail  and 
at  that  point  descended  into  the  river.  Intent  on 
reaching  the  waterfall,   I  went  ahead.     I  thought 


2  28     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

with  every  cautious  step  the  path  would  appear  and 
become  safer.  There  was  no  path — nothing  but  pre- 
cipitous rock  and  treacherous  marl,  and  the  roaring 
river  in  its  rocky  bed  fifty  feet  below  me.  I  could 
not  even  turn  and  go  back,  for  what  I  had  passed 
was  certainly  more  dangerous  than  anything  ahead. 
Well,  I  made  it,  and  was  glad  of  a  chance  to 
descend,  and  jump  into  the  water  where  it  was  not 
too  strong  for  me.  The  chasm  was  dark,  but  I 
managed,  by  resting  one  side  of  the  camera  on  the 
cliff  and  the  other  on  my  knee,  to  take  two  pictures. 
Now  how  to  get  out,  that  was  the  question.  Not 
the  way  I  came.  With  nerves  not  at  their  freshest, 
and  with  full  knowledge  of  the  peril,  the  chances 
would  be  against  me.  Looking  around,  I  noticed 
the  ogress  of  the  place.  She  was  built  apparently 
of  porphyry,  with  a  singularly  contrasting  white  or 
light-colored  death's-head  and  cavernous  eyes,  and 
was  leering  right  at  me.  She  was  seated  upon  her 
throne,  with  four  squarely  cut  stair-steps  leading 
down  to  a  platform  of  rock,  which  was  partly  lost  in 
the  spray.  "Old  lady,"  I  said,  "I  didn't  come 
here  to  make  love  to  you,  not  by  a  long  shot;  and 
I'm  not  going  down  your  steps,  either.  I'm  going 
to  climb  out;  and  I'm  never,  never  going  to  honor 
you  with  my  presence  again,  never,  never."  There 
was  a  sardonic  grin  on  her  cheeks,  as  if  she  thought 
I  couldn't  do  it.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
climb.  It  has  made  me  shudder  to  think  of  it  since. 
I  took  a  photograph  of  the  chasm.     The  climb  was 


Dutch  Harbor  229 


some  four  hundred  feet.  I  think  that  I  shall  have 
more  sense  hereafter.  There  was  a  pretty  badly  de- 
moralized old  man  lying  panting  on  the  top  of  that 
cliff  when  all  was  over.  It  did  not  teach  me  any 
sense,  though.  Later,  at  Juneau,  the  Fairy  left  me 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  sound,  and  I  applied  to  an 
Aleut  to  row  me  across.  After  many  grimaces  he 
consented,  and  he  and  his  boy  launched  his  boat, 
a  picturesque-looking  dugout.  I  never  rode  in  a 
wooden  kyack  before,  and  don't  think  I  shall  again. 
I  did  not  notice  that  it  was  as  tippy  as  a  foot-wide 
board  set  on  edge,  till  we  had  left  the  beach.  I 
judge  it  was  about  two  miles  to  the  dock  on  the 
other  side,  but  less  than  a  mile  straight  across.  I 
winked  both  eyes  at  once.  I  said,  in  a  very  level 
and  evenly  balanced  tone,  "Go  straight  across — 
straight  over.  "  "But  the  tide  won't  let  you  walk," 
he  said.  "Never  mind  the  tide;  put  me  straight 
over."  He  was  very  willing  for  that.  I  kept 
watching  the  distance,  and  calculating  how  far  I 
could  swim  with  my  clothes  on.  I  did  not  know 
why  he  hesitated  to  take  me.  It  was  probably 
because  he  did  not  like  to  trust  himself  with  a  white 
man  in  an  Aleut  boat.  These  be  petty  adventures. 
They  would  be  nothing  to  a  mountaineer,  a  whaler, 
or  an  Aleut.  But  to  a  "cheechecho"  (a  tender- 
foot) maybe  they  will  serve  as  warnings  not  to  trust 
to  one's  own  ignorance — not  to  be  too  self-confi- 
dent while  touring  in  these  strangely  attractive 
regions. 


230     Musmgs  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

The  mail-boat,  the  Excelsior,  came  up  the  har- 
bor at  last.  I  was  watching  for  her.  That  was 
coal-smoke,  I  was  sure,  rising  behind  the  moun- 
tains. *'No,  it  is  old  Shishaldon  smoking  his  pipe," 
said  one.  Volcano  smoke  is  mostly  steam  and 
white.  This  was  black.  As  soon  as  she  rounded 
"the  Priest,"  though  she  was  a  mere  speck  on  the 
water,  Captain  Nice  said,  "That  is  the  Excelsior." 
These  seamen  know  every  \oat  on  the  Pacific.  I 
asked  him  what  he  could  see  from  the  distant, 
almost  invisible,  ship  that  made  him  so  sure.  He 
said  that  every  boat  had  its  features  as  men  have. 
The  mark  of  the  Excelsior  which  he  immediately 
recognized  is  the  way  she  wears  her  main  spar 
across  her  mainmast.  The  Roanoke,  a  vessel  over 
three  hundred  feet  long,  came  in  swarming  with 
prospectors  bound  for  Cape  Nome.  When  we  left 
I  had  to  cross  two  ships  to  get  to  the  Excelsior. 
That  beautiful,  but  usually  solitary,  harbor  had 
suddenly  become  a  crowded  seaport.  Adventurers 
swarm  up  that  way  toward  the  gold-fields.  One 
meets  more  ships  than  he  would  on  the  highway 
between  New  York  and  Liverpool. 

I  left  that  flowery  island,  with  its  smooth,  round 
mountains,  its  encompassing  volcanoes,  its  springs 
and  waterfalls,  and  its  snowy  peaks,  with  regret. 
Those  few  delightful  days  will  be  one  of  my  pleas- 
ant memories. 


Among  the  Islands 


WE  sailed  out  of  Unalaska  harbor  and 
from  the  verdant  and  blooming  hills 
into  a  gloomy  sea.  Of  all  that  splen- 
did scenery  which  we  beheld  when  going  west 
there  was  only  the  tip  of  one  peak  dimly  visible 
through  the  mist.  As  we  passed  along  the  leaden 
shores  that  were  so  splendid  before,  I  recalled 
and  thought  of  the  effects  which,  in  their  glory, 
they  produced  upon  the  beholder.  One  of  those 
snowy  volcanoes,  rising  to  an  incredible  height 
from  the  sea,  uplifts  one  and  fills  him  with  a  noble 
pleasure.  It  awakens  something  in  one  that  has 
been  sleeping  for  years — for  always,  if  one  have 
never  beheld  such  a  scene.  Does  not  this  teach  us 
that  we  do  not  know  what  we  are?  That  we  are 
unfolded  flowers,  unconscious  of  what  is  hidden  in 
ourselves?  The  dazzling  majesty  of  the  mountain 
does  not  overawe  us.  On  the  contrary,  we  rise  to 
its  height  and  to  its  grandeur,  and  are  enraptured 
by  communications  with  it.  We  understand  what 
it  says,  though  we  cannot  translate  it  into  words. 
We  apprehend  perfectly  what  we  can  neither  describe 
nor  explain.  In  such  a  presence  one  does  not  wish 
to  speak  nor  to  be  spoken  to.  It  is  said,  and 
231 


232     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

truly,  that  we  think  in  words.  The  silence  one 
preserves  and  desires  is  wished  for  because  language 
is  irrelevant  and  becomes  an  annoyance.  At  its 
best  it  is  not  only  an  understatement,  but  we  may 
say  a  misstatement,  because  it  does  not  and  cannot 
represent  the  mind.  Does  not  this  show  that  we 
underrate  our  own  capacities?  That  we  are  consti- 
tuted and  constructed  in  a  larger  mold  than  is  usual 
in  this  world  and  in  this  state  of  existence?  That 
we  are  much  greater  beings  than  we  are  accustomed 
to  estimate  ourselves  and  others?  I  remember  to 
have  heard  my  father  say  that  a  redeemed  soul 
would  be  a  great  and  glorious  being.  As  we  can  rise 
to  the  height  of  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  the 
mountain,  easily,  naturally,  and  without  effort,  we 
may  infer  that  there  is  no  limit  to  our  capacity  for 
the  appreciation  and  enjoyment  of  the  glories  of 
God  and  of  the  works  of  his  hand. 

I  knew  so  little  of  the  outlines  of  our  continent 
that  I  was  surprised  to  learn  that  we  were  sailing 
northeast,  and  that  we  would  ascend  some  three 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  in  latitude  beyond  the 
Alaskan  peninsula.  This  comes  of  observing  the 
map  as  it  appears  on  a  globe  or  globular  projec- 
tion. The  western  coast,  then,  seems  to  ascend  in 
a  northwesterly  direction,  whereas  it  sweeps  far  to 
the  north  and  descends  again  at  the  west.  I  spoke 
in  my  last  of  the  delightsomeness  of  the  drinking- 
water.  In  developing  my  plates  at  random,  I  came 
upon  the  "Silver  Bow."     I  tried  to  get  closer  to 


Among  the  Islands  233 

it,  but  found  a  thicket  of  "devil's  club,"  four  feet 
high,  in  my  way.  It  is  a  delicate  thread  as  seen 
high  up  on  the  mountain,  and  at  a  distance,  but  at 
the  foot  is  seen  to  be  a  strong  stream.  I  saw  every 
day  scenes  which  I  longed  to  photograph,  but  could 
not,  either  because  the  air  was  thick  or  because  of 
the  vibrations  of  the  ship.  A  roll  or  a  pitch  would 
not  hinder,  but  those  vibrations  were  fifty  to  the 
second.  I  will  have  something  more  to  say  of  the 
Silver  Bow  hereafter.  As  I  look  back  upon  the  two 
weeks  of  winding  in  and  out  along  that  coast,  and 
at  the  procession  of  villages  under  the  cliffs,  I  fear 
that  I  did  not  take  sufficiently  particular  memoranda, 
and  that  I  shall  get  them  mixed.  An  Alaskan  coast 
village  is  always  a  thin  line  of  houses  along  thebeach, 
with  a  snowy  mountain  back  of  it,  from  which  a 
river  emerges.  The  river  attracts  the  salmon  and 
the  salmon  attract  the  natives,  and  both  attract  the 
Russians.  Wherever,  therefore,  a  river  or  a  con- 
siderable stream  issues  out  of  the  mountain,  there 
you  will  find  a  village,  and  a  Russian  church  with 
its  Muscovite  dome,  triple  cross,  and  chime  of  bells. 
The  church  is  always  by  far  the  most  showy  and 
conspicuous  building  in  the  place,  and  it  is  always 
given  the  advantage  of  an  elevated  site.  The  Rus- 
sians are  remarkable  for  their  fondness  for  bells. 
Their  "Kol-o-kol"  in  Moscow  is  one  of  the  wonders 
of  the  world.  These  are  no  cheap  chimes  which 
send  music  out  among  the  cliffs  and  snow.  On 
Saturday — their  Sunday — they  ring  out  very  sweet 


234     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

and  solemn  harmonies,  and  the  devout  Aleut  will 
make  sacrifices  rather  than  be  absent  from  a  ser- 
vice. Some  of  these  churches  are  wealthy.  That 
at  Sitka  has  sacred  jewels  costing  many  thousand 
dollars.  All  of  them  are  very  showy  in  pictures, 
gilt,  banners,  and  colors.  When  the  priest  appears 
from  his  holy  and  secluded  recess,  back  of  the 
altar,  he  is  artfully  careful  to  allow  you  to  peep 
into  his  purple  and  golden  wonderland.  Then  his 
mysterious  movements  and  his  intonations,  his 
bowing  and  kneeling  this  way  and  that,  and  his 
smoking  incense,  powerfully  impress  and  excite 
the  imagination  of  the  native  worshiper.  The 
Russian  beats  the  Roman  in  fine  spectacles.  The 
latter  was  long  under  the  tutelage  of  Greek  culture. 
He  asks  for  fine  art  and  chaste  architecture.  But 
the  Muscovite  revels  in  color,  and  it  must  be  admit- 
ted that  he  handles  it  well.  The  interiors  of  these 
churches  are  fine,  any  artist  must  say  so.  They 
employ  a  background  of  pure  white,  and  upon  this 
their  gilt  and  crimsons,  rich  browns  and  yellows 
make  a  harmonious  and  pleasing  display. 

While  we  missed  the  scenery  of  Unimak  Island, 
of  which  I  have  spoken,  and  the  next  day  remained 
foggy,  yet  the  captain  fired  at  it  with  his  fog-horn, 
and  a  section  of  it,  six  hours  wide,  broke  loose  and 
fell  into  the  sea,  where  it  water-logged  and  sank. 
We  knew  from  the  bases  of  the  mountains,  and 
especially  from  the  volcanic  scoria  which  slid  from 
them,  and  which  we  could  see  under  the  low-lying 


Among-  the  Islands  235 

clouds,  that  we  were  passing  fine  scenery.  When 
the  fog  fell,  what  a  sight!  There  was  Pobloff  and 
his  bride — the  higher  peak  rising  twelve  thousand 
feet,  wearing  his  black  cap  and  plume,  and  his 
bride,  their  white  robes  meeting  and  mingling. 
She  was  exactly  like  him,  only  smaller,  and  her 
plume  was  not  of  smoke,  but  of  snow,  dropping 
over  like  a  white  ostrich  plume.  As  I  write  I  do 
not  know  whether  I  took  their  photographs  success- 
fully on  the  jarring  boat,  but  I  hope,  when  I  get 
where  I  can  develop  my  plates,  to  find  them  there 
in  their  beauty.  Our  first  stop  east  of  the  pass  out 
of  Bering  Sea  was  Bellkorky,  the  usual  thin  line 
of  houses  on  the  beach,  with  a  Russian  church. 
This  was  once  the  prosperous  seat  of  the  sea-otter 
fur  fishery.  As  many  as  thirty  thousand  of  the 
otters  were  taken  in  a  single  season,  and  the  spoils 
were  divided  about  equally  between  the  church  and 
the  traders  in  rum — par  nobile  fratrum.  Now  the 
sea-otter  is  nearly  extinct,  and  as  a  single  skin  is 
worth  four  hundred  dollars,  the  remnant  is  pursued 
to  the  uttermost.  When  an  otter  is  sighted,  all 
hope  for  him  to  escape  is  gone.  Out  of  the  ship, 
or  off  the  shore  from  which  he  is  seen,  come  the 
long,  slim,  swift  kyacks,  which  the  natives,  with 
their  sharp  paddles  and  strong  arms,  drive  forward, 
swift  as  the  wind.  The  otter  makes  a  long  dive 
and  rises  a  half-mile  or  a  mile  away,  for  he  is  swift 
also,  but  the  kyack  nearest  him  compels  him  to 
dive  again.     The  chase  in  some  instances  extends 


236     Musings  by  Camp-Fh^e  and  Wayside 

a  distance  of  fifty  miles,  but  at  last  the  poor  otter 
can  dive  no  more,  and  amid  great  shouts  and  slap- 
ping of  paddles  he  is  slain. 

We  glided  along  between  the  islands  and  the 
shore — Deer  Island,  Dolgoi  Island,  Gold  Bay,  with 
innumerable  rocks  standing  like  pillars  high  out  of 
the  water — and  reached  Unga  on  Unga  Island. 
Here  is  another  low-grade-ore  gold  mine  like  the 
Treadwell.  The  approach  was  higher,  picturesque 
— on  either  hand  high  cliffs  surmounted  with  light 
green  verdure,  the  cliffs  themselves  so  swarming 
with  millions  of  birds  that  in  the  distance,  in  moun- 
tain-climbing in  Unalaska,  I  was  always  looking  at 
cliffs  and  mountains  to  see  where  I  could  best  climb 
them.  There  was  one  near  the  entrance  of  the 
harbor  of  Unga  that  particularly  interested  me.  It 
was  three  or  four  hundred  feet  high,  its  fiat  top 
about  an  acre  in  extent,  deep  with  verdure,  and  it 
overhung  its  base  on  all  sides  like  a  mushroom, 
under  which  the  white  wings  of  the  kittiwakes 
flash  like  fire-flies.  How  could  anybody  ever  get 
to  the  mossy  top  of  that  rock?  There  were  two 
ladies  on  board,  besides  Major  Clarke,  of  the  United 
States  seal  island  service,  and  they  found  rich  spoils 
of  milk  and  cream  for  their  children.  I  was  inter- 
ested in  the  cattle  and  asked  the  store-keeper  about 
them.  They  live  well  in  winter,  but  with  little 
feed-bran  to  enrich  the  milk.  I  asked  him  why  he 
did  not  go  into  cattle-raising  for  a  business.  Surely 
it  would  be  highly  profitable  with  competition  fif- 


Among  the  Islands  237 

teen  hundred  miles  away.  He  said  it  was  because 
the  cattle  were  killed  by  falling  from  the  cliffs. 
The  grass  grows  freshest  and  earliest  on  the  warm 
edges  of  the  cliffs  which  it  overhangs,  and  the  cows 
go  out  for  it,  fall,  and  are  killed.  For  the  same 
reason  untethered  horses  cannot  be  risked  out  in 
pasture.  He  said  the  only  way  to  keep  cattle  would 
be  to  set  fences  at  the  top  of  the  cliffs.  Now, 
observe  that  Unga  is  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
miles  farther  north  than  Unalaska,  in  the  "frozen 
desert."  At  Unga  we  noticed  a  very  good-look- 
ing, apparently  young,  couple  preparing  to  come 
aboard,  whereat  we  were  glad,  for  there  were  only 
four  or  five  passengers.  These  proved  to  be  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  MulhoUan,  of  Juneau,  a  charming  couple. 
There  had  been  some  competition  between  the 
Major  and  myself  in  the  way  of  "telling  stories." 
I  think,  and  the  Major  was  inclined  to  concede, 
that  I  carried  the  larger  variety  of  them,  and  of 
superior  size.  I  had  an  assortment  of  them  that 
were  fifty-year-old  "chestnuts,"  novel  because  they 
were  so  old,  while  Clarke  disdained  anything  that 
was  not  fresh  and  new.  Dr.  Mulhollan  and  his 
wife  laughed  very  well  indeed  as  we  displayed  our 
stocks.  He  kept  quiet,  but  there  was  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye.  He  then  turned  to  and  beat  us  out  so  com- 
pletely, and  filled  us  with  such  envy,  that  we  threat- 
ened to  rob  him  if  he  told  another  one. 

From  Unga  we  wound  our  way  farther  northeast 
to  Chic-chic,  which  is  back  at  the  end  of  a  crooked 


238     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

inlet,  then  to  Port  (not  Fort)  Wrangel,  at  the  foot 
of  the  tremendous  peak  of  Mount  Chiquinaquak, 
then  into  the  great  island  of  Kadiak,  stopping  at 
Kenluk;  then  winding  through  the  straits  of  Kad- 
iak, now  called  Saint  Paul;  then  on  to  Afognak ; 
thence  to  Marmot,  the  United  States  fishery  resi- 
dence, and  thence  due  north  to  Cape  Elizabeth  at 
the  eastern  entrance  of  Cook's  Inlet. 

If  I  had  not  said  so  much  about  volcanoes,  I 
would  say  that  Iliamna  Peak  and  Redoubt  Vol- 
cano, and  especially  that  most  picturesque  pile 
farther  north,  formed  a  trinity  which,  as  we  saw 
them,  were  unapproachable  anywhere  in  the  round 
world.  There  was  a  special  reason  for  their  splen- 
dor at  that  time.  It  was  the  shortest  day  of  the 
year.  I  could  read  ordinary  print  out  of  doors  at 
any  time  of  night.  The  sun  set  a  little  west  of 
north,  and  his  globe,  as  it  decreased  there,  increased 
a  little  east  of  north,  so  there  was  clear  daylight  all 
night.  The  northern  sky  was  strewn  with  cumu- 
lous  clouds.  These,  displaying  more  than  the  usual 
beauty  and  variety  of  color,  were  reflected  by  the 
three  vast  mountains.  It  is  impossible  for  one  who 
did  not  see  it  even  to  imagine  the  effect.  I  re- 
mained up  till  one  o'clock  marking  the  changes  in 
that  vast  kaleidoscope. 

The  pile  farthest  north — I  did  not  hear  its  name, 
if  it  had  any — was  an  enormous  basin,  the  lowest 
side  of  which  is,  perhaps,  ten  thousand  feet  high. 
It  opens  toward  the  sea,  and  thus  in  plain  view  was 


Among  the  Islands  239 

the  origin  and  course  of  three  glaciers  reaching 
down  to  the  brine.  The  rim  of  this  basin  is  a  ser- 
rated picket  of  peaks.  The  largest  of  the  three 
glaciers  which  it  sends  out,  at  one  place  in  its 
course,  goes  over  a  sheer  cliff  that  must  be  fifteen 
hundred  feet  high.  It  beats  the  Muir  in  its  tre- 
mendous crashes  by  five  times  the  fall.  The 
"cities"  in  Cook's  Inlet  are,  in  order  beginning  at 
the  south,  Port  Graham,  Soldovia,  Homer,  Seward, 
Fort  Kenai,  Kurtatan,  Tyonik,  Chuitna,  Hope  City, 
and  Sunrise  City.  These  latter,  as  may  be  inferred, 
are  goldbugs.  A  prospector  just  out  from  one  of 
those  rivers  says  that  Cook's  Inlet  will  astonish  the 
world  before  the  year  is  out.  There  was  a  detach- 
ment of  infantry  at  Soldovia,  sent  to  try  to  find  a 
trail  north  from  the  source  of  Sushitna  River  to  the 
Yukon.  It  is  not  very  far,  but  I  do  not  believe  any 
mortal  can  make  it.  No  man  can  carry  enough 
provisions  to  take  him  half  way.  It  is  one  mass  of 
bottomless  chasms  and  saw-teeth  peaks.  A  mile  a 
day  would  be  good  traveling  for  him.  The  military 
had  a  little,  slim  wheeler  in  which  to  ascend  the 
river,  but  there  they  are  bound  to  stop. 

I  made  a  picture  of  Soldovia,  in  Cook's  Inlet.  It 
differs  from  any  other  that  I  saw  in  that  there  is  a 
high  bluff  instead  of  a  snow-peak  back  of  it.  The 
tents  of  a  detachment  of  United  States  soldiery  are 
seen  on  the  right,  sent  to  find  a  way  between  the 
head  of  the  Sushitna  and  the  Yukon,  which  they 
will  never  find,  or  I  miss  my  guess,     I  could  not 


240     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

think  what  the  sod  cut  on  the  very  steep  side  of  the 
bluff  meant.  It  proved  to  be  garden  lots.  They 
told  me  they  tied  the  onions  fast  to  sticks  to  keep 
them  from  sliding.  As  I  went  ashore  a  little  Irish- 
man insisted  upon  carrying  me  on  his  back.  I  told 
him  that  if  he  tried  it  he  must  stand  up  to  the  work 
or  drown.  He  landed  me  all  right.  As  usual 
Soldovia  is  at  the  mouth  of  a  river,  and  has  two 
salmon  canneries. 

We  tarried  too  long  at  Soldovia,  I  felt  that  this 
was  so.  The  tide  runs  up  the  inlet  at  a  speed  of 
six  miles  per  hour.  It  was  running  up  at  its  best 
rate  when  a  boat  started  back  from  the  landing  to 
the  ship.  The  oarsman  could  not  hold  against  it, 
and  we  merrily  waved  good-bye  to  the  party  aboard 
as  they  drifted  up  the  inlet.  A  buoy  was  thrown 
out  with  a  next  to  endless  rope  attached,  and  by 
hard  exertion  the  rowers  held  the  boat  so  far  against 
the  tide  that  the  buoy  floated  to  them  and  they 
were  hauled  in.  The  ship  had  to  make  its  way  out 
against  that  swift  current  and  went  very  slowly.  The 
next  day  was  clear  until  four  o'clock,  as  we  sailed 
along  a  coast  of  low  peaks  as  thickly  set  as  the 
teeth  of  a  rasp.  Then  the  fog  fell  suddenly  and 
black.  Two  hours  more  would  have  put  us  into 
Natchek  harbor,  but  those  two  hours  we  left  behind 
us  in  Cook's  Inlet. 

Once  before,  I  failed  to  mention,  the  fog  came 
down  on  us,  and  we  drifted  pretty  close  in  to  the 
rocks,  backed  off  when  we  saw  them,  and  anchored. 


Among-  the  Islands  241 


Out  came  the  fishing-tackle,  and  very  soon  the  deck 
was  strewn  with  piles  of  cod,  halibut,  butterfly  fish — 
or  Irish  lords  as  the  sailors  comically  called  them— 
enough  to  feed  a  ship's  crew  for  a  month.  But 
where  we  were  now  there  was  "no  bottom,"  and  we 
could  not  anchor;  I  threw  a  line  overboard  to  find 
out  which  way  we  were  drifting.  I  thought  we 
were  going  toward  Montague  Island.  They  said 
we  were  drifting  out  to  sea,  but  I  was  sure  we  were 
not,  and  I  spent  the  only  uneasy  night  I  had  in 
thirty-two  days  of  sailing.  The  fog  lasted  sixteen 
hours.  They  were  trying  to  determine  whether  we 
were  near  land  by  blowing  the  whistle.  "No  echo," 
was  the  verdict.  One  gentleman  said  there  was  an 
echo.  A  sea  captain  who  was  aboard  said:  "I 
have  sailed  these  waters  for  thirty  years,  and  I  say 
there  was  no  echo."  "And  I  say  there  was," 
retorted  the  landsman,  "and  you  will  hear  rocks  on 
the  keel  in  less  than  half  an  hour."  The  captain 
took  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  and  backed  the  ship  a 
little  from  the  direction  of  the  supposed  echo. 
Suddenly  the  fog  lifted,  and  there  we  were,  right 
on  top,  so  to  speak,  of  the  point  of  some  cape.  I 
readily  understood  why  the  question  of  the  echo 
was  disputed.  The  cliff  was  so  close  that  the  echo 
blended  with  the  sound  of  the  whistle  and  could 
not  be  distinguished  from  it.  A  rifle-shot  would 
have  told  the  story  quickly  enough. 


Scenic  Grandeur  of  Alaska 


[Two  of  my  letters  descriptive  of  Alaskan  scenery  were 
misplaced,  and  afterward  gave  way  to  Camp-Fire  Musings, 
written  subsequently.  I  notice  in  looking  them  over  that  I 
had  tried,  with  more  than  usual  care,  to  make  the  scenery 
visible  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader,  who,  1  think,  will 
find  them  more  vivid  than  any  of  my  other  attempts  to  por- 
tray what  I  saw.  The  scene  lay  between  Cook's  Inlet  and 
Orca.] 

THERE  is  a  glacier  on  the  west  side  of 
Cook's  Inlet  which  I  hesitate  to  describe, 
for  two  or  three  reasons.  First,  I  was  no 
nearer  to  it  than  the  muddy  channel,  which,  though 
some  thirty  miles  wide  is  all  the  time  as  full  of  mud 
as  the  Missouri  in  a  freshet.  The  tide  rushes  up 
and  down  it  at  a  seven-mile-per-hour  gait,  the  mud- 
laden  water  boiling  up  as  one  sees  it  in  a  rapid 
stream.  I  was  no  nearer  to  the  glacier  than  this 
distance,  twenty  miles,  probably;  secondly,  if  I  saw 
it  correctly,  it  is  the  most  wonderful  ice  cataract 
in  the  world,  far  and  away  a  greater  wonder  than 
the  Muir  glacier;  and  thirdly,  why  has  it  not  been 
investigated  and  described  by  others? 

The  scene  is  a  mountain  basin,  perhaps  thirty 

miles  wide,  tilted  toward  the  sea.     On  all  but  parts 

of  the  seaward  side  it  is  set  about  with  a  picket  of 

sharp  peaks;  that  is  to  say,  the  sides  of  the  basin 

242 


Scenic  Grandetir  of  Alaska  243 

break  into  a  sierra  of  peaks  of  nearly  the  same 
height.  The  ravines  between  these  peaks  carry 
tributary  ice-streams  into  the  basin.  The  sea  of 
ice  spills  over  at  two  places  in  small  glaciers,  but 
the  main  channel  of  its  exit  is  toward  the  south, 
not  proceeding  far  before  it  reaches  a  precipice. 
The  icebergs  are  pushed  out  till  they  break  off  of 
their  own  weight,  and  fall  two  thousand  feet.  The 
cataract  is,  I  judged,  over  a  mile  long,  and  less 
than  a  mile  and  a  half  wide. 

That  is  rather  an  astonishing  story,  isn't  it? 
Well,  if  I  were  ten  years  younger,  I  would  be 
there  on  or  before  the  first  day  of  June  next,  not- 
withstanding the  horrible  tangle  of  thicket  and 
swamp  which  lies  between  the  shore  and  the  glacier. 
It  would  be  a  cheap  way  of  earning  the  finest  monu- 
ment in  North  America. 

I  had  noticed  a  singular  premonition  of  a  coming 
fog  on  the  mountains  of  the  Aleutian  Islands.  The 
peak  puts  on  a  wig — every  peak's  wig  of  the  same 
pattern,  round  and  smoothly  combed  at  the  top, 
and  curling  out  and  up  and  away  from  the  peak  on 
all  sides.  There  is  nothing  of  the  woolly  and  capri- 
cious cloud-form  about  these  wigs.  They  are 
smooth,  perfect  curves,  breaking  into  graceful 
up-curls.  About  two  o'clock  of  the  next  day  after 
leaving  Cook's  Inlet  we  could  see  the  point  of 
Montague  Island  about  twelve  miles  ahead  of  us, 
and  the  mainland  five  miles  to  the  left,  but  the  out- 
at-sea    rocks,   which  everywhere  characterize    the 


244     Musings  by  Cajup-Fire  and  Wayside 

Alaskan  coast,  all  of  a  sudden  put  on  their  wigs — 
very  curious  and  interesting  to  look  at,  but  both 
unwelcome  and  ominous.      I  quote  from  my  journal: 

"2  p.m.  Line  of  fog  visible  across  the  mouth  of  Resur- 
rection Bay,  and  the  great  rocks  which  stand  in  the  sea  are 
putting  on  white  night-caps — that  means  a  heavy  fog.  3  p.m. 
A  circle  of  it  bends  around  the  northeastern  horizon.  The 
engine  is  set  at  half-speed.  We  are  into  it.  The  wheel 
stops.  We  are  gently  rocking  on  the  sea.  The  sun  shines 
down  through  the  cloud,  but  everything  is  invisible  100  feet 
away.  It  is  a  chilly  and  a  very  wet  fog.  We  expected  a  fine 
sight  in  entering  Prince  William's  Sound— could  see  high 
snowy  mountains  on  Montague  and  the  mainland.  6  p.m. 
Everything  about  the  ship  is  dripping.  Casting  the  sound 
line  continually  and  blowing  the  fog-horn.  11  p.m.  This 
is  the  first  time  I  have  felt  timid  at  sea.  I  know  that  we  are 
drifting,  and  we  are  close  upon  a  rocky  and  dangerous  coast, 
of  which  there  is  no  chart." 

That  night  Major  Clarke  and  myself  were  sitting 
with  our  backs  against  the  smoke-stack,  when  sud- 
denly we  both  sprang  to  our  feet,  exclaiming,  "A 
reef!  We  are  on  a  reef!"  "No,  not  a  reef — 
whales,"  came  an  answer.  Two  big  fellows  had 
risen  within  twenty  feet  of  the  ship's  side  and  were 
making  the  sea  boil. 

The  fog-horn  was  sounded  for  echoes.  After  a 
time  of  investigation  the  ship  was  turned  about  and 
went  off  at  full  speed.  We  had  drifted  into  a  pocket, 
leaving  the  cape  back  of  us.  There  was  a  fog  bank 
back  of  us,  but  the  ship  turned  confidently  into  it, 
passed  through  it,  and  into  sunshine  beyond.  We 
rounded  Cape  Cleare,  and  one  could  see  that  it  was 
easily  recognizable.  We  had  a  lively  sea,  a  stiff 
breeze,  and  a  bright  sun  the  rest  of  that  day.     The 


Scenic  Grmtdeur  of  Alaska  245 

next  morning  I  awakened  at  four  o'clock,  and  look- 
ing out  saw  that  we  were  running  close  to  land  that 
was  covered  with  trees — so  close  that  I  could  have 
thrown  a  biscuit  into  the  woods.  It  was  a  very 
pleasant  sight.  These  were  the  first  trees  I  had 
seen  since  leaving  the  Puget  Sound.  One  does  not 
appreciate  trees  till  he  has  been  without  them  for  a 
month  or  two. 

I  have  all  the  time  a  sub-consciousness  that  I  am 
not  conveying  to  the  reader  an  idea  of  the  novelty 
and  peculiarity  of  this  Alaskan  coast.  Let  me 
begin  at  the  top  of  the  scenery  and  try.  The  top 
is  snow.  Wherever  you  look  you  will  see  snowy 
mountains,  not  monotonous  white,  but  white  snow 
and  black  rocks  in  every  conceivable  variation  of 
outline.  On  that  mountain-side  you  can  see  "$X" 
plain  as  you  could  write  it — that  is  "ten  dollars." 
There  is  a  line  of  hieroglyphics  beginning  with  a 
Gibsonian  F,  I  try  to  spell  it  out,  but  it  has  too 
many  of  the  letters  w,  v,  y,  and  x.  There  is  a 
capital  C  very  well  drawn.  I  will  anticipate 
another,  seen  later,  which  I  photographed,  and 
which  I  hope  will  come  out  well  when  I  get  home 
to  develop  and  print  it.  It  is  one  of  Gibson's  New 
York  belles,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion,  and 
putting  on  Broadway  airs.  My  friends  will  have  a 
laugh  at  it,  as  we  did,  if  only  I  have  succeeded. 
She  was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  tall,  but  a  good 
way  off.  Always  back  of  and  among  these  moun- 
tains of  mixed  snow  and  black  rock,  one  will  see  a 


246     Mti sings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

snow-white  peak  rising  spotless  and  dazzling  in  the 
sun.  This  is  the  top  of  the  scenery.  Of  course  we 
saw  the  rougher  side  of  the  land  from  the  sea — 
rocks,  precipices,  sea-worn  caverns,  etc.  But  the 
lower  half  of  the  scenery,  inland,  is  always  of  high, 
but  gracefully  rounded,  hills,  smooth  in  outline  as 
eggs,  and  of  a  fresh,  spring-like  green.  They  are 
usually  broken  somewhere  by  precipices — are  now 
as  thick  with  flowers  as  a  clover-field.  They  are 
deceptive,  however,  as  to  steepness.  You  cannot 
walk  up  one  of  them,  but  must  climb  with  hands 
and  feet  out  of  the  ravine.  The  hill  rounds  more 
to  a  level  higher  up.  Another  feature.  The  moss 
will  grow  on  a  precipice  that  has  a  slight  incline, 
and  with  its  strong  roots  hold  the  soil  from  sliding 
off  the  rocks,  though  sometimes  an  acre  or  two  will 
let  go  and  fall.  The  final  feature  is  everywhere 
great  beauty,  the  white  streams  from  the  snow 
threading  their  way  with  many  a  bend,  and  leaping 
and  splashing  down  along  their  margins  of  green 
moss.  One  can  see  the  stream  emerging  from  the 
snow  and  follow  its  whole  course  at  a  glance  to 
where  it  takes  its  final  leap  into  the  sea. 

Coming  into  the  timber  region  we  leave  the 
smooth,  high,  mossy,  and  flowery  hills,  and  now 
have  the  vast  and  seemingly  inexhaustible  forests 
of  spruce,  chiefly,  but  with  beginnings  of  fir,  cedar, 
and  birch.  The  timber  line  between  trees  and  snow 
now  becomes  conspicuous  on  the  mountain-sides. 
It  is  not  sharp.     The  trees  thin  out  in  the  snow, 


Scenic  Grandeur  of  Alaska  247 

and   the    snow  disappears   gradually  in  the  forest 
below. 

I  said  I  awakened  to  see  the  trees.  We  were 
now  approaching  "the  prettiest  place  in  Alaska," 
formerly  called  Kadiak,  same  as  the  large  island, 
but  now  called  St.  Paul.  The  whole  scene  of  cav- 
erned  shores,  island-studded  waters,  and  overhang- 
ing trees  was  indeed  very  pretty,  and  it  was  on  a 
wide  amplitude  of  view.  I  made  a  close  study  of 
the  rock  at  the  left  of  the  harbor  as  one  goes  in, 
to  see  if  I  could  climb  it,  not  that  I  would  try  it, 
for  after  my  experience  in  Unalaska  I  have  become 
a  theoretical  mountain-climber.  The  top  is  flat  and 
green  and  about  an  acre  in  extent.  It  is  about 
three  hundred  feet  high.  The  table  with  its  moss 
overhangs  the  perpendicular  wall  on  all  sides  like  a 
mushroom.  Millions  of  kittiwakes  are  flashing  in 
and  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  rock  and  of  the  over- 
hanging top.  No,  I  will  venture  to  say  that 
nobody's  foot  ever  pressed  the  verdure  on  the  top 
of  that  rock.  Back  in  the  hills  is  a  low-grade-ore 
mill  of  the  Treadwell  type,  turning  out  a  thirty- 
thousand-dollar  brick  per  month.  Out  around  the 
cape  is  a  rock-dotted  bay,  and  beyond  is  "Wooded 
Island,"  the  one  we  sheered  so  closely  to  in  the 
early  morning.  There  is  a  Baptist  mission  with 
pretty  white  buildings  nestling  on  the  light  green 
grass  and  among  the  dark  green  trees.  It  is  true, 
one  would  have  to  travel  far  to  find  a  prettier  place 
than  St.  Paul,  on  Kadiak  Island,  Alaska. 


fllpujsmg  tl^e  Ctoentt^fourtl^ 


At  Orca 


WE  now  rounded  the  northern  end  of  Kad- 
iak,  passing  the  United  States  fishery 
residence,  but  stopping  long  enough  to 
send  our  letters  in  a  boat.  The  wind  was  pretty 
strong,  and  an  officer  remarked  that  we  would  have 
some  sea  outside.  There  was  a  remarkable  ob- 
ject ahead  which  became  more  and  more  odd  as 
we  approached  it,  a  solitary  rock  rising  out  of 
the  sea.  It  is  just  the  shape  of  a  tall  haystack, 
about  five  hundred  feet  high  and  four  hundred 
feet  in  diameter  at  the  base.  Its  singularity,  large- 
ness, and  graceful  outlines  made  it  quite  an  imposing 
spectacle  as  it  stood  outlined  high  against  the  sky. 
The  birds  drifted  past  it  in  swarms  that  obscured 
the  view  like  a  cloud  as  they  passed.  Could  I 
climb  it?  Well,  I  thought  I  found  a  place  that 
would  give  a  climbing  chance,  and  traced  the  way 
to  the  top.  At  two  points  of  the  climb  I  had  to 
arrange  to  get  up  by  a  stretch  of  the  imagination. 
I  will  anticipate  to  say  that  there  is  another  such 
rock  standing  a  mile  or  two  from  the  point  of  Cape 
St,  Elias.  It  is  the  more  remarkable  looking  of  the 
two,  for  the  reason  that  it  appears  to  be  square- 
walled  and  perpendicular.  The  line  of  the  top  is  a 
248 


At  Orca  249 


downward  curve  dropped  from  the  two  corners, 
which  thus  become  pinnacles.  These  two  rocks  are 
so  much  like  human  architecture,  and  they  are  so 
enormous,  that  the  first  glance  startles  one.  As  I 
looked  at  them  I  thought  of  the  pother  that  is  made 
over  the  little  pyramid  of  Cheops  in  Egypt.  Why, 
if  Cheops  were  stuck  against  the  side  of  the 
pyramid  of  Shishaldon  or  of  Pobloff  one  would  want 
to  get  at  it  to  brush  it  off  with  a  feather  duster. 

Now  we  were  heading  for  Orca  in  Prince  Wil- 
liam's Sound.  I  thought  the  approach  to  Orca, 
though  not  so  pretty  as  that  to  St.  Paul,  to  be  quite 
as  interesting.  We  were  sailing  up  a  wide  bay, 
very  noble  looking  and  leading  far  inland.  We 
were  heading  for  the  middle  of  a  mountain  at  the 
end  of  the  bay.  Where  was  Orca?  I  could  see  all 
sides  of  the  sound  now,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  a 
cabin,  much  less  of  a  town.  I  sighted  along  the 
mast  to  see  the  ship  turning,  but  straight  ahead  she 
went,  right  up  to  that  mountain.  Then  she  turned 
sharply,  went  around  it,  and  there  was  Orca,  snug- 
gled up  in  the  safest  nook,  where  neither  wind  nor 
wave  could  reach  her — a  big  cannery,  not  much 
else. 

A  great  surprise  awaited  us.  At  one  side  of  the 
dock  lay  a  splendid  ship,  with  every  mark  of  the 
highest  finish  and  luxury,  a  beautiful  object.  Ele- 
gant launches  in  spick-and-span-new  linens  were 
moving  here  and  there.  Finely  dressed  ladies  flit- 
ted along  the  corridors.     There  were  absurd  canvas 


250     Musings  by  Canip-Fire  and  Wayside 

canoes,  which  some  city  crank  had  invented,  brand- 
new,  on  the  beach,  with  dudes  dressed  in  the 
fashionable  dude  outing  suits — getting  into  the  can- 
vas boats  and  pawing  on  both  sides — just  as  a  city 
canoeist  does,  you  know.  But  as  we  drifted  slowly 
up  to  the  dock  a  different  type  appeared.  There 
were  men  walking  about,  grizzled  old  veterans  so 
full  of  learning  that  it  exuded  from  their  pores,  and 
gave  the  atmosphere — or  would  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  terrible  offal  of  that  monster  cannery — the 
odor  of  a  college  class-room.  And  there  stood  that 
idol  of  every  lover  of  nature  and  of  charming  litera- 
ture, John  Burroughs. 

Naturally  we  felt  abashed;  we  with  our  old  tub 
of  a  mail-boat  in  the  presence  of  that  sumptuous 
ship,  the  John  W.  Ellis,  and  in  the  presence  of  the 
pick  and  choice  of  the  science  and  scholarship  of 
the  United  States — for  it  was  the  famous  scientific 
expedition  that  we  had  so  suddenly  run  upon  in  the 
hid-away  cave  of  Orca.  They  ran  out  a  great 
gramophone  with  a  wide  and  glistening  silver  trum- 
pet, and  began  to  grind  out  stories,  some  of  them 
chestnuts,  and  songs,  and  comic  dialogues.  We 
took  our  places  appropriately  with  the  other  Aleuts 
and  applauded. 

The  Ellis  had  broken  her  propeller — how,  I  did 
not  inquire — and  had  backed  up  against  the  beach, 
so  that  low  tide  would  clear  it,  and  they  could  get 
at  it  to  make  repairs. 

Orca  is  beached  against  such  a  cliff  as  I  have 


At  Orca  25 


described.  The  sight  of  it  would  make  a  poet  tune 
his  lyre.  First,  one  of  those  silver  ribbons  was 
seen  gathering  up  a  bunch  of  lesser  ones  in  the 
snow  two  thousand  feet  above,  and  sliding  down, 
now  a  veil,  now  a  silver  wire,  down  the  mossy  cliff 
to  the  sea.  Next  came  a  larger  one  bounding  and 
leaping  like  a  white  antlered  stag  and  taking  a 
grand  leap  into  the  brine.  But  from  the  woods 
beyond  came  the  sound  of  a  cataract.  There  was 
a  river  zigzagging,  leaping  in  spray  which  curved 
high  in  the  air,  over  huge  black  rocks.  It  came 
down  through  a  dense  growth  of  trees,  and  looking 
up,  just  as  far  as  the  eye  could  penetrate,  it  was 
seen,  now  hidden,  now  revealed,  roaring  down  and 
filling  the  air  with  flying  water-drops.  They  had 
drawn  off  enough  of  it  below  to  turn  the  machinery 
of  that  huge  cannery,  where  they  take  in  a  dozen 
tons  of  salmon  at  a  load.  Remember  that  this 
background  of  Orca  is  not  a  steep  hillside,  it  is  a 
tremendous  cliff,  which  you  could  no  more  scale 
than  you  could  a  Corinthian  pillar. 

The  party  that  met  regularly  around  the  smoke- 
stack consisted  of  all  the  passengers,  namely,  Mrs. 
M.  L.  Claiborne,  of  Seattle,  and  two  children;  Mrs. 
Charles  H.  Harper  and  her  little  daughter,  also  of 
Seattle;  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Mulhollan;  after  we  arrived 
at  Unga  and  until  we  arrived  at  Kadiak,  Mr.  M.  L. 
Washburn,  Major  Clarke,  and  myself.  But  at  Orca 
we  met  a  disaster.  The  smoke-stack  had  been  our 
social  hall.     There  was  where  Dr.  Mulhollan  laid 


252     Musinis  by  Canzp-Fzre  and  Wayside 

Clarke  and  myself  out  in  story-telling.  It  was  the 
only  comfortable  place  on  the  ship  out  of  our  state- 
rooms, and  half  a  dozen  of  us  had  it  all  to  ourselves. 
But  at  Orca  thirty  disconsolate  prospectors  from 
Copper  River  came  on  board  and  took  possession. 
They  had  been  eighteen  months  in  those  swamps. 
They  had  scurvy,  some  of  them,  but  no  gold.  The 
smoke-stack  with  all  its  delightful  associations  went 
glimmering  back  to  take  its  receding  place  among 
the  things  that  were,  but  are  not. 

We  had  had  glaciers  galore,  scores  of  them, 
some  of  them  as  wide  as  the  Muir,  and  volcanoes, 
but  now  we  looked  forward  to  Mount  St.  Elias,  the 
highest  in  America,  and  the  Fairweather  range. 
We  were  going  to  sail  close  up  to  every  one  of 
them,  and  we  did,  but  we  did  not  get  the  faintest 
glimpse  of  any  of  them.  As  I  sat  gazing  at  the 
leaden  sky  I  borrowed  the  objurgation  of  my  Aleut 
boatman  against  the  whales,  "It  is  a  shame!  It  is 
a  shame!  Hang  the  fog!  I'd  rather  be  in  a  hurri- 
cane than  in  a  fog!"  The  barometer  seemed  to 
promise  both.  It  began  blowing  dead  ahead  in  the 
forenoon,  and  by  two  o'clock  we  were  in  a  first-rate 
gale,  driving  the  rain  like  bird-shot;  in  short,  in  a 
storm  at  sea.  With  full  steam  on,  we  could  not 
force  the  ship  forward  perceptibly.  The  ship 
pitched  and  rolled  and  creaked.  The  gale  blew 
tTie  top  off  every  high  wave  and  sent  it  flying.  The 
wheel  was  out  of  the  water,  going  like  mad,  half  the 
time.     All  through  the  storm  the  ship  kept  repeat- 


Ai  Orca  253 


ing  her  roll.  In  the  midst  of  tremendous  waves 
she  would  lie  an  instant  upon  a  level  keel,  motion- 
less, then  came  a  moderate  pitch,  the  next  deeper, 
the  plunge  increasing  till  she  seemed  diving  head- 
first like  a  whale,  then  the  level  keel  and  quiet 
again.  We  were  in  for  twelve  hours  of  this  at  the 
shortest;  possibly  twenty,  possibly  a  week.  I 
retired  and  was  waked  up  by  the  stillness  of  the 
ship,  and  waited  for  her  to  resume  her  regular 
round  of  pitches,  but  she  did  not.  The  storm  was 
still  going  on,  but  we  were  under  shelter  of  some 
kind.  The  captain  had  found  a  lee-shore  to  creep 
under. 

We  stopped  at  Yukatat,  but  were  somewhat  glum 
over  missing  St,  Elias,  Fairweather,  and  the  gla- 
ciers. However,  we  looked  ahead.  As  evening 
came  on  we  were  trying  to  get  into  Cross  Sound. 
It  was  a  race  between  us  and  a  visible  fog  bank. 
If  we  got  there  first,  then  farewell  to  the  ocean  and 
its  fogs.  We  would  see  them  no  more.  If  the  fog 
got  there  first,  then  we  would  drift  up  and  down  on 
the  ocean  for  a  day  and  a  night  probably,  waiting 
for  it  to  lift.  But  we  entered  the  narrow  strait 
with  the  fog  close  on  our  heels. 


&^mm  t\)t  ctDcntr-fifti^ 


T/ie  Alaskajz  Mines 


MY  last  concluded  with  our  escape  from  the 
fog  into  Cross  Sound,  the  northernmost 
channel  out  of  the  wonderful  labyrinth 
into  the  ocean.  As  between  a  fog  and  a  storm 
I  would  take  the  storm  any  time,  either  on  the 
dangerous  Alaskan  coast  or  on  the  highway  be- 
tween New  York  and  Liverpool.  A  strong  ship 
will  ride  the  waves  and  defy  the  gale;  but  drift- 
ing in  a  black  fog,  she  is  subject  to  invisible 
enemies,  sinuous  and  slimy,  whose  bite  is  fatal. 
The  mouth  of  Cross  Sound  is  narrow  and  rocky, 
which  accounted  for  the  captain's  refusal  to  try  it 
without  a  clear  view,  but  it  widens  grandly.  To 
the  left  was  the  Glacier  Bay,  at  the  head  of  it  the 
celebrated  Muir,  dimly  visible.  Passing  this  the 
sound  narrows  somewhat  and  is  called  Icy  Strait, 
because  of  the  many  icebergs  which  float  out  from 
Glacier  Bay.  We  counted  thirty  of  them,  all  in 
view  at  the  same  time.  The  top  surface  of  the  ice- 
bergs seemed  to  be  thickly  covered  with  moss,  an 
impression  which  a  good  glass  only  confirmed.  But 
as  we  neared  one  the  steam-whistle  was  blown,  and 
instantly  the  moss  became  a  cloud!  The  sea-birds 
had  been  sitting  with  their  bare,  webbed  feet  on  the 
254 


The  Alaskan  Mines  255 

ice,  as  closely  together  as  they  could  squat.  They 
circled  about  a  little  and  then  drifted  back  to  their 
heel-cooling  perches.  Such  a  winding  way  as  that 
ship  pursued!  east,  northeast,  north,  southeast, 
north  again,  and  finally  west.  The  sound  of  blast- 
ing came  down  the  strait  from  the  Treadwell  mines. 
To  the  left  emerged  the  long  lines  of  stamp-mills 
in  which  eight  hundred  and  eighty  huge  pestles 
pound  away  night  and  day  every  day  in  the  year 
but  two,  the  Fourth  of  July  and  Christmas.  There 
is  no  cessation  in  the  attempt  to  supply  the  insa- 
tiable and  universal  hunger  for  gold.  Farther 
along,  the  pretty  little  city  of  Juneau  could  be  seen, 
like  a  patch  of  snow  newly  fallen  from  one  of  the 
two  mountains,  in  a  small  angle  of  which  it  climbs. 
They  tell  me  they  have  plenty  of  room  for  a  city, 
but  the  way  in  which  the  little  houses  are  set  upon 
ledges,  like  hatching  sea-birds,  does  not  seem  to 
imply  much  room.  Juneau  presents  the  singular 
exception  of  a  city  well  ordered,  well  improved,  well 
kept,  without  municipal  government,  without  tax- 
ation, without  police.  The  money  needed  for  muni- 
cipal purposes  is  voluntarily  paid  by  the  property- 
holders.  It  was  ten  o'clock  and  raining  when  we 
drew  up  to  the  wharf,  but  I  was  bound  to  sleep  in 
a  full-sized  bed  that  night.  I  had  said  that  as  soon 
as  I  could  get  ashore  I  would  take  a  room  in  the 
hotel,  that  contained  two  wide  beds,  and  change 
from  one  to  the  other  frequently  during  the  night. 
Still,  the  bed  I  had  on  the  Excelsior  had  its  advan- 


256     MzLsin^s  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

tages,  I  touched  at  both  ends,  so  when  the  ship 
rolled  in  that  storm  I  neither  rasped  a  hole  through 
the  mattress  nor  had  to  go  to  a  cobbler  to  get  my- 
self half-soled. 

At  the  hotel,  on  the  counter,  a  nickel-plated  pipe 
came  up,  bent  over,  and  poured  a  constant  stream 
of  the  unequaled  Alaskan  water  into  an  always 
overflowing  tumbler.  Now  I  would  immediately 
reach  home  by  telegraph,  but  was  surprised  to 
learn  that  no  part  of  Alaska  is  connected  with  the 
States  by  wire.  I  had  not  received  a  word  from 
home  since  I  left  the  front  door  two  months  before. 
As  long  as  one  can  speak  to  his  friends  at  any  time, 
he  does  not  feel  that  he  is  away  from  them. 

At  the  Treadwell  mines  labor-saving  is  brought 
to  its  perfection.  The  low-grade  ores  are  treated 
at  a  cost  of  one  dollar  per  ton.  The  mills  in  the 
States  charge  ten  dollars  per  ton.  This  economy 
in  extracting  the  precious  metal  will  soon  make 
gold  over-abundant,  reduce  its  value  so  as  to  make 
it  inconvenient  to  carry.  There  is  no  limit  to  the 
amount  of  gold  that  is  accessible;  its  costliness 
arises  from  the  labor  required  to  concentrate  it. 
One  can  dig  a  spadeful  of  earth  almost  anywhere  in 
Alaska,  and  wash  gold  out  of  it.  It  is  so  in  all  the 
country  around  Cook's  Inlet  and  the  tributary 
rivers  in  the  Cape  Nome  country.  The  prospec- 
tors who  starved  out  on  the  Copper  River  said 
they  could  get  gold  anywhere  in  the  whole  region. 
Alaska  is  dusted   over  with  it.     The  insuperable 


The  Alaskan  Mines  257 

difficulty  has  been  to  concentrate  it  economically. 
I  saw  thin  seams  of  gold  quartz  cutting  through  the 
great  stratas  of  slate  all  along  the  Silver  Bow  Canon. 
But  gold  is  worth  what  it  costs  in  labor,  like  every 
other  commodity.  Where  the  quartz  or  the  ore  will 
not  pay  good  wages  to  the  man  who  would  work 
it,  he  lets  it  alone. 

The  Treadwell  lode  is  four  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
thick  and  set  on  edge.  Its  extent  is  not  known, 
but  there  is  enough  in  sight  to  keep  ten  hundred 
stamps  busy  day  and  night  for  one  hundred  years. 
The  situation  allows  ore  extraction  with  the  mini- 
mum of  labor.  First  a  tunnel  was  driven  into  the 
lode  some  four  hundred  feet.  Then  a  shaft  was 
driven  down  to  meet  it,  not  perpendicular  to  the 
tunnel,  but  so  as  to  allow  a  cork-screw  slide  of  some 
fifty  feet  to  reach  it;  this  to  break  the  force  of  the 
ore  falling  to  the  cars.  The  ore  is  blasted  off  the 
sides  of  the  shaft,  falls  to  the  slide,  which  empties 
it  into  the  cars.  The  cars  are  on  a  slight  incline,  so 
that  the  only  labor  is  to  regulate  the  brakes.  They 
dump  themselves  into  a  hopper,  which  feeds  the  ore 
to  the  crusher.  From  the  crusher  it  falls  into  the 
hopper  four  hundred  feet  long,  which  feeds  it  to 
the  stamps.  From  the  stamps  it  falls  into  the 
separators,  which  wash  out  all  uninineralized  dust. 
This  leaves  the  "concentrates"  which  contain  gold, 
silver,  and  base  metals.  These  are  put  in  one-hun- 
dred-pound sacks  and  sent,  mostly  as  ballast,  to 
the  reduction  works  in  the  States. 


258     Musings  by  Cajup-Fire  and  Wayside 

It  is  perfectly  surprising  to  walk  through  those 
enormous  mills,  thunderous  with  the  blows  of  the 
stamps,  and  perhaps  not  see  a  human  being;  and 
to  see  those  separators — which  are  Fourdrinier 
paper-machines  slightly  adapted  to  a  new  use — 
working  away,  six  lines  of  them  occupying  acres  of 
space,  with  nobody  to  regulate  them.  Yes,  step- 
ping around  a  corner  one  will  see  a  man  quietly 
walking  about  with  an  oiler  in  his  hand. 

A  large  amount  of  power  is  required  to  do  all 
this  heavy  work.  If  it  were  derived  from  steam 
the  Treadwell  mine  would  be  less  of  a  financial 
success.  But  one  can  see  a  surplus  of  unused 
energy  leaping  down  the  mountain-side  in  a  water- 
fall— not  a  small  one. 

Pressure  of  one  hundred  and  seventy  pounds  to 
the  square  inch  is  delivered  to  the  turbines,  which 
furnish  the  force  to  drive  the  drills,  lift  the  stamps, 
and  illuminate  the  whole  work  with  electric  light. 
By  the  way,  I  see  that  the  new  water-motor  put  in 
at  Snoqualmie  Falls  is  pronounced  a  success.  As  I 
explained,  the  motor  is  a  pair  of  interlocked  turn- 
stiles inclosed  in  a  box.  Each  one  of  the  pair 
weighs  twelve  tons.  They  are  so  closely  fitted  to 
each  other  and  to  the  inclosing  steel  box  that 
almost  no  water  is  allowed  to  pass  without  sur- 
rendering its  energy.  I  had  my  doubts  about  the 
practicability  of  the  invention.  I  could  not  see 
why  the  pressure  would  not  be  as  great  against  the 
advancing  as  against   the  receding  blade;    and  I 


The  Alaskan  Mines  259 

shall  wish  to  know  yet  that  the  motor  delivers  the 
calculable  amount  of  force,  less  friction,  before  it 
can  be  a  demonstrated  success. 

Major  Clarke  and  I  received  invitations  to  a  party 
of  four,  from  Mrs,  Dr.  Mulhollan.  As  we  sat 
around  the  smoke-stack  of  the  Excelsior,  not  infre- 
quently memories  of  strawberries  and  cream  broke 
into  the  routine  of  ship's  fare.  There  was  a  great 
tureen  of  them  on  the  lady's  table  that  evening — 
about  a  peck — and  a  water-pitcher  full  of  real  cream, 
and  angel-food  cake,  light  and  white  enough  to  buoy 
one  up  to  the  skies  like  a  balloon.  Now  I  am  not 
going  to  give  Major  Clarke  away,  I  am  not  going 
to  tell  what  he  did  to  those  beautiful  berries  and  to 
that  pitcher  of  molten  gold.  The  Major  was  on 
Winfield  Hancock's  staff  during  the  war,  and  in 
consideration  of  his  patriotic  services  my  lips  are 
sealed — his  weren't,  and  there's  the  difference. 

Juneau  is  a  wedge  driven  in  between  two  moun- 
tains, the  liveliest  little  city  in  Alaska.  There  are, 
as  I  have  said,  no  taxes — no  law  by  which  they  can 
be  levied,  no  fund  for  supporting  anything,  and  yet 
the  streets  are  well  planked,  well  kept,  and  the 
community  is  as  orderly  and  safe  and  tidy  as  if 
there  were  a  mayor  and  all  the  municipal  machin- 
ery. The  funds  needed  are  scheduled  and  appor- 
tioned to  the  property-holders,  who  pay  voluntarily 
to  a  committee  appointed  by  the  town  meeting. 
There  can  be  no  suspicion  about  Juneau's  water 
supply.      There   it   is.      Every  citizen  can  see    for 


26o     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

himself  its  origin  and  its  channel.  What  reinforce- 
ments the  stream  receives  after  leaving  the  snow  is 
from  springs  which  find  their  way  out  from  reser- 
voirs in  the  porphyry.  Another  stream  gives  them 
their  electric  lights.  I  was  interested  in  knowing 
what  lay  behind  that  steep  little  mountain  which 
shuts  off  a  view  of  the  water  supply.  So  I  buckled 
on  my  camera  and  started.  On  the  way  I  met  Mrs. 
James  WoUaston  Kirk,  of  Philadelphia,  thus  far  on 
her  way,  with  her  husband,  to  the  Yukon  as  a  mis- 
sionary. I  told  Mrs.  Kirk  that  Silver  Bow  Canon 
lay  just  beyond  that  little  mountain,  and  that  I  was 
going  to  explore  it;  would  she  go  with  me?  The 
road  lay  around  the  cliff,  was  built  of  poles  which 
were  supported  on  the  outside  by  beams  and  long 
posts.  At  various  places  there  were  spaces  made 
where  teams  could  pass.  The  river  which  foamed 
along  below  implied  a  pretty  sharp  and  long  ascent. 
Passing  beyond  the  little  mountain  a  stream  of  some 
width  and  impetuosity  crossed  the  road.  It  did  not 
discourage  the  lady.  She  balanced  on  the  stone, 
and  chunks  thrown  in,  and  came  to  shore  with  a 
flying  bound.  A  gentleman  we  met  said  we  would 
find  some  good  views  by  passing  around  a  spur  seen 
in  the  distance;  "but  it  is  quite  a  walk,"  he  added. 
So  I  found  a  nice  shady  place  from  which  the  beau- 
tiful tangle  of  water  on  the  mountain-side  was 
visible,  and  fixed  a  seat  for  Mrs.  Kirk,  and  said  I 
would  go  on  up  the  mountain,  and  so  strode  away. 
The   precipice   below  that  spur  was  more  than  a 


The  Alaskan  Mines 


261 


thousand  feet  deep.  Beyond  it  was  a  ravine  filled 
with  snow  clear  up  to  the  top  of  a  high  mountain. 
There  were  ice  bridges,  beneath  which  the  streams 
were  flowing.  There  were  here  and  there  great 
tresses  of  sparkling  water  from  the  cliffs,  and  far 
down  below  the  river  was  leaping  from  ledge  to 
ledge — not  little  ripples,  but  sheer  plunges  of  from 
fifty  to  a  hundred  feet.  It  was  a  most  animated 
scene,  and  I  became  absorbed  in  studying  how  I 
could  get  a  picture  of  it,  when  looking  up,  there 
stood  Mrs,  Kirk,  perfectly  charmed  by  the  lofty 
and  splendid  surroundings. 

"Your  husband  will  hold  me  responsible  for  this, 
because  you  will  be  ill  to-morrow."  She  smiled, 
but  thought  not,  I  now  understood  how  the  popu- 
lar wife  of  a  popular  pastor  in  the  fine  old  city  of 
Philadelphia  could  forsake  a  fine  circle  and  a  wide 
range  of  influence  to  brave  the  loneliness  and  priva- 
tions of  Yukon.  It  must  be  a  work  of  discourage- 
ment as  well  as  of  hardship.  They  might  as  well 
try  to  organize  a  society  of  gomies  or  kittiwakes 
as  to  build  a  church  of  that  gold-fevered  and  mer- 
curial population.  As  for  brief  impressions,  a  single 
sermon,  with  no  instruction  before,  and  no  pastoral 
care  afterward,  I  do  not  believe  much  in  its  value. 
The  church  is  an  orchard,  a  vineyard,  which  must 
have  constant  and  laborious  attention  or  it  will 
grow  up  to  brambles  and  weeds. 

There  is  need  of  missionary  work  in  the  British 
Northwest  colony,  sure  enough.     There  is  nowhere 


262     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

on  this  continent  such  another  organized  band  of 
thieves  and  pirates  as  have  there  seized  upon  gov- 
ernmental authority.  Claims  are  going  in  constantly 
to  the  ofifice  of  the  secretary  of  state  in  Washington 
for  redress,  and  it  will  be  given. 

I  do  not  purpose  going  into  detail,  but  in  order 
to  show  the  serious  international  character  of  the 
conflict,  I  will  mention  one  line  of  their  perfidious 
and  infamous  operations.  Prospectors  are  required 
to  take  out  licenses,  for  which  they  are  charged  a 
high  price.  When  a  prospector  strikes  a  valuable 
claim  he  is  approached  by  an  official  who  demands 
to  see  his  license.  It  is  handed  to  him,  and  he 
immediately  stamps  across  the  face  of  it  "Good  for 
quartz  only."  There  is  no  quartz  yet  discovered 
on  the  upper  Yukon.  The  miner  is  ousted  and  his 
claim  seized  upon. 

Another  method,  not  so  obviously  within  the 
purview  of  international  law,  which  has  become  so 
flagrant  that  redress  is  being  asked  of  our  govern- 
ment, is  this:  When  an  American  prospector  finds 
"pay  dirt"  his  claim  is  jumped  and  an  injunction 
issued  to  stop  his  working  it  till  the  case  is  decided. 
The  case  is  never  decided,  but  is  postponed  from 
time  to  time,  till  the  prospector  is  starved  out  and 
leaves.  There  are  enough  of  such  instances  to 
show  that  it  is  a  system.  The  judiciary  is  as  cor- 
rupt as  the  other  departments  of  the  government. 
It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  Klondike  pirates 
victimize  Americans  alone.     A  Canadian  told  me 


The  Alaskan  Mines  263 

there  was  no  discrimination.  If  a  British  subject, 
a  poor  man,  discover  a  good  claim  he  is  robbed  of 
it  as  unscrupulously  as  if  he  were  an  alien;  but  the 
Canadian  victim  is  at  a  disadvantage  as  compared 
with  the  American.  He  can  have  no  hope  of 
justice  from  the  courts,  even  if  he  have  the  means 
to  prosecute,  while  the  American  has  only  to  file  his 
evidence  with  the  state  department  in  Washington. 

Now  how  could  such  a  band  of  men  obtain 
power  in  a  British  colony?  How  did  Boss  Tweed 
obtain  power  in  New  York  city?  The  situation  is 
entirely  favorable.  The  very  sparse  population  of 
British  subjects  is  widely  scattered,  with  small 
opportunity  to  vote,  and  it  would  do  them  no  good 
if  they  did.  The  returns  are  in  the  hands  of  the 
conspirators.  There  will  be  no  cessation  of  these 
proceedings,  unless  the  imperial  government  should 
interfere,  until  the  syndicate,  in  which  there  may 
be  some  Americans,  have  seized  upon  all  the  valu- 
able claims. 

British  and  Canadian  journals  should  not  give 
their  approval  to  these  proceedings.  As  just  men 
they  should  inform  themselves  of  the  fact.  They 
should  not  foster  prejudice  in  favor  of  wrong-doing. 
All  the  facts  and  the  evidences  will  be  spread  before 
the  people  of  both  nations  in  the  international  nego- 
tiations which  must  ensue.  I  hear  that  Sir  Wilfred 
Laurier  threatens  war.  I  heard  the  same  from  an 
Englishman  at  Skagway.  Sir  Wilfred  cannot  im- 
agine the  delight  which  his  words  give  to  the  Ameri- 


264     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

cans  in  Alaska.  News  of  hostilities  would  be  re- 
ceived with  the  wildest  yell  of  savage  joy  that  ever 
echoed  in  those  mountains.  If  there  should  be  a 
collision  the  Canadian  premier  will  be  responsible 
for  it.  The  state  of  feeling  is  dangerously  bitter 
already,  and  a  spark  will  ignite  tinder.  It  is  his 
place  to  appeal  to  British  justice  and  order,  and 
assure  all  of  protection  under  it,  in  their  property 
and  in  their  persons.  The  situation  in  the  British 
Northwest  is  abnormal  and  temporary.  It  is  bound 
to  attract  the  attention  of  the  Canadian  govern- 
ment, which,  composed  of  Englishmen,  may  be 
trusted  to  maintain  British  liberties  and  rights,  for 
their  own  people  and  for  ours. 


WHAT  ADAM  DID  IN  EDEN 


The  Realms  of  Mystery 


MYSTERY  inspires  fear,  as  children  are 
afraid  in  the  dark,  and  fear  is  an  incen- 
tive to  knowledge.  Fear,  not  fright, 
awakens  keen  and  serious  curiosity,  desire  to  know. 
The  most  timid  animals  are  the  most  curious.  A 
bulldog  never  investigates.  He  is  firm  in  his  con- 
victions. No  hunted  animal  can  be  so  alarmed  by 
the  presence  or  suspicion  of  danger  that  it  will  not 
pause  to  inquire.  There  is  no  knowledge  so  essen- 
tial to  life  as  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil. 
Those  who  know,  survive;  those  who  do  not, 
perish.  An  ancient  sage  urged  this  thought  in  an 
immortal  maxim:  "The  fear  of  the  Lord  is  the 
beginning  of  wisdom." 

Mind,  as  well  as  nature,  "abhors  a  vacuum." 
Man  and  the  higher  animals  below  him  people  mys- 
tery with  creatures  of  the  imagination,  and  these, 
because  mystery  is  in  itself  fearful,  are  always  more 
or  less  so.  Man  also  wishes  to  vindicate  his  cour- 
age by  justifying  his  fears.  For  these  reasons  all 
primitive  superstitions  and  religions  are  filled  with 
images  both  grotesque  and  dreadful;  and  these, 
when  he  would  represent  them  pictorially  or  in 
wood  or  stone,  are  esteemed  to  have  merit  in  pro- 
267 


268     Mtishigs  by  Cmnp-Fire  and  Wayside 

portion  to  their  monstrosity.  The  uglier  the  idol 
the  more  devout  the  worshiper.  Nor  is  this  prin- 
ciple lost  when  it  rises  into  the  wider  ranges  of 
religion.  The  more  shocking  a  dogma  be  to  the 
moral  or  intellectual  sense,  the  more  it  is  admired 
and  cherished  by  its  devotees.  The  love  of  the 
horrible  is  an  earlier  passion  in  the  human  heart 
than  the  love  of  the  beautiful,  therefore  ignorance 
and  curiosity  revel  in  scenes  that  are  revolting  to  a 
cultured  mind  and  heart.  Nor  can  they  be  dissi- 
pated by  evidence  or  reason.  They  are  beyond  the 
range  of  the  one  and  above  the  level  of  the  other. 
Natural  outgrowths  of  the  mind  in  a  lower  stage  of 
development,  they  never  wholly  disappear,  but  are 
like  a  disused  and  atrophied  physical  organ,  which, 
while  diminished,  persists,  and  sometimes  makes 
trouble.  The  most  enlightened  man  will  at  times 
shudder  with  a  superstitious  fear  that  came  into  his 
blood  a  thousand  years  ago.  His  reason  laughs  in 
vain  while  his  heart  quails. 

It  is  probable  that  the  gruesome  in  superstition 
arose  out  of  man's  experiences  in  his  perilous  strug- 
gle for  existence — experiences  which  were  for  the 
most  part  both  miserable  and  dangerous.  The  deer 
or  the  bird  does  not  for  a  moment  forget  to  lift  its 
head  suspiciously  and  search  its  surroundings  for 
the  approach  of  an  enemy.  Though  its  eyes  may 
be  employed  in  looking  for  food,  its  ears  and  its 
nostrils  are  sleepless  sentinels,  always  on  guard. 
Not  otherwise  was  the  situation  of  primitive  man, 


The  Realms  of  Mystery  269 

and  therefore  he  could  only  project  into  the  unseen 
and  mysterious  the  knowledge  he  had  of  the  visible 
and  real.  But  when  his  situation  improved,  and  life 
became  less  painful  and  perilous  and  his  prospects 
and  hopes  more  cheering,  they  were  mirrored  in  his 
religious  conceptions.  Song  is  the  expression  of 
gladness,  and  with  joy  came  the  singer.  A  man, 
like  a  bird,  sings  when  he  is  happy.  Here  also 
came  in  the  conditions  and  the  possibilities  of  art. 
Upon  the  black  background  of  primitive  supersti- 
tion the  poet-artist  could  cast  the  colors  of  victory, 
confidence,  hope,  and  good-will.  Mystery  was  en- 
lightened by  the  emergence  of  heroes,  who  warred 
upon  the  monsters,  and  therefore  became  objects  of 
man's  gratitude  and  worship.  It  was  a  chief  object 
of  his  thought  to  win  their  friendship.  He  built 
shrines  and  piled  altars  with  votive  offerings.  Paul, 
with  the  genuine  sympathy  which  comes  of  a  large 
and  generous  nature,  spoke  of  this  as  "seeking 
after  God,  if  haply  they  might  find  him."  The 
prophets  of  this  search  were  poets.  The  true  poet 
is  always  a  prophet,  and  the  true  prophet  a  poet. 
These  prophet-poets,  in  every  country,  infused  a 
spirit  of  joy  and  hope  into  the  gloomy  superstitions 
in  which  they  were  born.  The  early  Greeks  sang 
of  an  age  of  gold,  the  age  of  their  ancestors,  to 
which  their  descendants  might  hope  to  return.  So 
it  was  with  the  early  Egyptians.  They  extolled  the 
long  reign  of  the  god  Ra,  and  said  that  no  good 
thing  had  been  seen  on  the  earth  since  he  departed. 


270     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

So,  also,  our  Aryan  kindred  of  India  depicted  the 
blessedness  of  men  under  the  earliest  Manu — and 
the  Persians  the  reign  of  their  creator-God  Ahura- 
madz  before  the  devil-god  Ahiram  appeared;  and 
the  Semite  saw  Paradise  and  man  emerge  in  celes- 
tial beauty  when  the  Divine  Spirit  brooded  upon 
chaos.  The  periods  of  these  ages  of  gold  varied 
among  the  various  peoples.  The  eastern  Aryans 
gave  a  million  of  years  to  theirs,  the  Hebrew  Tal- 
mudists  only  seven,  while  the  grim  Saint  Augustine, 
in  his  parsimony  of  joy,  would  allow  Adam  and 
Eve  only  six  years  of  Eden,  and  thus  economized 
one  year  to  be  added  to  the  already  over-ample  sum 
of  human  misery,  in  the  conservation  of  which  he 
was  largely  interested. 

Archaeology  has  in  recent  years  brought  large 
light  to  the  study  of  the  story  of  Adam — its  origins, 
variations,  and  parallels.  Those  lost  libraries  of 
clay  and  stone  have  lain  buried  for  two  and  a  half 
thousand  years.  They  were  inscribed  in  unknown 
characters,  and  recorded  the  words  of  unknown 
tongues.  They  were  as  dead  and  apparently  as 
unrestorable  as  the  scattered  dust  of  lips  that  had 
last  spoken  them.  It  was  a  miracle  of  perseverance, 
acumen,  and  learning — a  breathing  upon  dry  frag- 
ments of  bones,  causing  them  to  arise,  lift  the 
curtains  of  oblivion,  and  discourse  to  us  of  a  litera- 
ture and  civilization  of  which  history  had  small 
suspicion. 

There  has  been,  in  recent  years,  much  polemic 


The  Realms  of  Mystery  2  7 1 

conflict  over  the  authorship  of  the  Pentateuch,  and 
the  dates  of  its  various  parts.  In  these  questions 
I  take  little  interest,  and  with  them,  in  this  writing, 
have  nothing  to  do.  My  purpose  is  to  take  the 
writing  as  I  find  it,  "asking  no  questions  for  con- 
science' sake,"  and  impartially  study  it  for  the 
intent  and  meaning  of  its  author.  To  put  it  on  its 
lowest  ground,  a  decent  respect  for  an  author  re- 
quires that  he  shall  be  read  for  what  he  says  and 
means,  and  not,  in  the  interest  of  any  philosophy, 
dogma,  sect,  or  other  motive,  be  subjected  to  con- 
structions and  glosses  that  were  foreign  to  his  mind. 
It  has  been  otherwise  inexplicable  to  me,  that  of  the 
thousands  of  volumes,  and  I  may  say  millions  of 
sermons,  that  have  traversed  the  story  of  Adam, 
not  one,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  has  perceived  the 
thought  most  obvious  on  the  page  of  Moses;  nor 
has  seen  the  picture  of  Adam  in  Eden  which  he 
drew  in  lines  simple,  striking,  and  beautiful,  and 
full,  nevertheless,  of  the  profoundest  thought  con- 
cerning man. 

It  is  not  questioned  that  the  materials  employed 
by  Moses  are  very  ancient;  that  dealing  with  the 
beginnings,  he  went  back  to  the  beginnings  as  they 
were.  He  even  seems  to  have,  of  design,  left  the 
marks  of  great  antiquity  on  his  page,  in  order  that 
the  thoughtful  scholar  might  be  assured.  Why  else 
should  the  brief  song  of  Lamech  be  left  lying  on 
the  surface  of  his  narrative,  though  foreign  to  it, 
like  a  granite  bowlder  on  a  green  meadow,  dropped 


272     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

by  the  receding  ice.  Lamech's  song  is  the  sudden 
war-whoop  of  a  savage,  an  outbreak  of  exultant 
ferocity:  "Cain  slew  one  young  man  of  his  kindred; 
I  will  slay  threescore  and  fifteen!"  It  was  as  if 
he  were  fingering  the  edge  of  a  newly  acquired 
weapon,  eager  for  a  revel  of  murder.  He  took  his 
two  wives  into  his  confidence,  who  appear  from  this 
to  have  been  in  sympathy  with  him.  Such  a  song 
as  that  would  not  have  been  preserved  by  a  people 
who  were  much  above  his  own  moral  level.  The 
song,  therefore,  antedates  the  oldest  civilization, 
and  has  its  value  as  an  evidence  of  the  authenticity 
of  the  writings. 

I  assume  the  authorship  of  Moses  as  a  matter  of 
convenience,  and  to  say  the  least,  of  unstudied 
probability.  In  creating  a  new  nation,  a  new  mill-, 
tary  power,  out  of  the  material  of  Egyptian  slaves, 
he  would  wish  to  inspire  them  with  patriotism  and 
pride  in  an  heroic  ancestry.  The  popular  conception 
of  Adam  in  Eden  is  at  an  opposite  extreme  from 
that  of  Moses.  This  we  owe  to  the  genius  of  Mil- 
ton chiefly,  though  it  was  not  original  with  him; 
and  all  the  poets  and  artists  since  have  followed  his 
path.  It  will  be  remembered  that  Milton's  con- 
ception of  Adam  was  of  an  opulent  English  gentle- 
man in  peculiar  circumstances,  dwelling  in  a  highly 
artificial  English  park  in  fine  weather.  Milton's 
Eden  was  a  not  very  congruous  combination  of 
Anglican  and  Oriental  landscapes.  It  was  a  mound 
protected  from  intrusion  by  triple  barriers — a  wall, 


The  Realms  of  Mystery  273 

a  forest,  and  an  impenetrable  thicket.  An  Ameri- 
can poet,  familiar  with  native  wilderness  scenery, 
would  have  set  this  paradise-mound  for  security  in 
the  center  of  a  tamarack  swamp,  and  omitted  the 
forest  and  the  wall  as  superfluous.  For  the  sake  of 
artistic  variety,  after  the  manner  of  Milton  a  native 
poet  might  have  intermingled  a  few  cypress  trees 
with  his  tamaracks,  decorated  his  sloughs  with 
patches  of  everglade,  filled  the  waters  with  a  mixed 
population  of  muskallonge  and  alligators,  and  thus 
have  combined  the  charms  of  Florida  with  those  of 
northern  Wisconsin,  both  of  them  dear  to  the  vaca- 
tioner's heart. 

Within  the  encircling  wall,  on  the  summit  of 
Milton's  mound,  were  the  trees  of  the  Edenic  gar- 
den. His  puritanic  ideas  of  propriety  prevented 
him  from  doing  justice  to  the  scene.  Frivolous 
poets  and  artists  among  the  cavaliers  have  improved 
the  opportunity  thus  offered,  so  that  the  resultant 
popular  conception  is  a  mosaic  which  would  have 
astonished  Moses.  Thus  the  Edenic  trees  lifted 
their  glistening  and  freighted  branches  above  and 
extended  them  over  the  high  protecting  wall,  prob- 
ably as  a  temptation  to  a  frugivorous  devil.  Their 
twigs  bent  low  with  crimson-streaked  apples,  which 
had  forgotten  neither  the  colors  nor  the  perfume  of 
their  lovely  ancestress,  the  rose.  The  golden  gleam 
of  oranges  shone  in  a  foliage  of  glossy  green,  and 
all  abroad  was  the  multitudinous  sisterhood  of  the 
flowers,  rising  from  the  humble  violet  to  the  lofty 


2  74     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

magnolia.  Amid  the  recesses  and  paths  of  this 
opulent  scenery  wandered  Eve,  sweeter  than  the 
nectarines  and  fairer  than  the  flowers. 

Now,  what  was  Paradise?  I  was  born  in  it  my- 
self, and  am,  therefore,  prepared  both  to  admire 
and  vindicate  the  fidelity  of  Moses  in  his  descrip- 
tions of  Adam  and  nature.  Eden  was,  as  he  well 
and  truly  as  well  as  poetically  says,  God's  garden. 
It  owed  nothing  of  its  beauty  to  man.  All  city- 
living  men — women  not  so  much — who  were  fortu- 
nate in  a  similar  nativity,  in  their  retrospective 
moments  sympathize  with  Eve  in  her  lament, 
*'Must  I  thus  leave  thee,  Paradise!"  and  look  with 
grief  upon  the  circling  sword  of  fire  which  turns 
every  way  to  make  recovery  impossible. 

Magnificent  were  the  fruit-bearing  trees  of  Para- 
dise, in  stature  of  trunk  and  arm,  and  in  cloudy 
gracefulness  of  crown:  the  walnut,  hickory,  mul- 
berry, hackberry,  chestnut,  coffee-nut,  beech, 
cherry,  hawthorn,  persimmon,  pawpaw,  and  en- 
tangled in  their  lofty  tops,  the  mighty  grape-vine, 
hanging  its  shining  and  multitudinous  clusters  in 
the  scarlet  and  golden  foliage  of  October.  There 
arose  the  sweet-hearted  maple,  its  bole  pitted  by  the 
bills  of  sipping  birds  and  black  with  sugar  charred 
in  the  sun.  The  ground  below,  wherever  the  trees 
allowed  light  to  penetrate,  was  woven  over  with 
vines  of  the  dewberry,  the  blackberry,  the  whortle- 
berry, the  strawberry — the  feast  garnished  with 
goldenrod  and  aster,  while  the  lakes  were  fields  of 


The  Realms  of  Mystery  275 

nutritious  rice.  The  inhabitants  which  Adam  found 
in  Paradise  were  wild  pigeons,  myriads  of  them  fly- 
ing in  clouds  that  darkened  the  sky,  the  brown 
quail  with  its  little  captain's  plume  and  its  musical 
call,  the  wild  turkey  strutting  in  its  pride,  the  wild 
goose  flying  en  echelon  across  the  sky,  the  arrowy 
wild  duck,  the  swan  floating  like  a  white  cloud,  the 
wood-thrush  filling  the  forest  with  a  tide  of  exquis- 
ite melody,  the  painted  humming-bird  and  butter- 
fly— a  noble  paradise  it  was,  dignified  in  its  grandeur, 
brilliant  in  its  floral  and  animated  beauty,  melodious 
with  all  sweet  song,  redolent  of  all  delightful  odors. 
Adam  could  not  direct  his  steps  anywhere,  could 
not  cast  his  eye  toward  the  earth  to  the  scenes  im- 
mediately about  him,  nor  to  the  distant  view  of  the 
snow-draped  mountains,  without  having  them  filled 
with  curious  beauty  or  distant  grandeur,  nor  could 
he  look  up  without  beholding  the  splendor  of  cloud, 
or  rainbow,  or  auroral  flame,  or  sparkling  star. 
But  Adam  was  neither  to  be  palled  with  beauty  nor 
enervated  by  ease.  The  machserodus  was  there, 
bearing  two  serrated  sabers,  the  crouching  panther, 
the  huge  cave-bear,  the  striped  hyena,  the  tawny 
hair-clad  elephant.  Adam  must  sharpen  his  wits  to 
circumvent  the  rapacious  strength  which  he  could 
not  directly  resist;  he  must  tax  his  invention  for 
better  weapons  than  nature  had  furnished  to  his 
rivals.  He  must  devise  means  for  striking  those 
foes  at  a  distance  which  he  dared  not  meet  in  im- 
mediate grapple.     He  must  put  his  soft  hand  and 


276     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

his  busy  brain  in  the  lists  against  tooth  and  claw. 
Therefore,  he  borrowed  the  resilient  strength  of  ash 
and  yew  for  his  bow.  He  tipped  his  arrows  and  his 
spears  with  edges  and  points  of  chert  and  flint.  He 
learned  to  concentrate  his  strength  and  the  whole 
energy  of  his  body  upon  a  piercing  point.  Soft  as 
were  his  hands,  unarmed  as  were  his  feet,  symmetri- 
cal and  harmless  as  were  the  white  arches  of  his 
teeth,  he  introduced  a  new  tactic  into  defensive 
warfare  and  became  the  Napoleon  of  the  forest. 
The  spies  of  his  keen  senses  anticipated  an  ap- 
proaching enemy.  He  knew  what  he  could  not 
know  nor  explain.  He  could  not  be  lost  in  unfamil- 
iar surroundings,  nor  his  judgment  be  confused  by 
a  scenic  surprise — a  range  of  intuitive  perception 
which  his  descendants  have  lost,  and  left  to  the 
homing-dove  and  the  listening  caribou.  The  great 
cat,  however  well  padded  his  feet  and  cautious  his 
step,  could  not  approach  him  unknown,  but  while 
waving  his  tail  in  anticipation  of  a  man-feast,  and 
gazing  with  his  wide  yellow  eyes,  would  hear  the 
sudden  twang  of  a  string  and  the  whiz  of  a  shaft, 
which  if  it  did  not  kill  him,  warned  him  to  be  con- 
tent with  less  toothsome  prey, 


The  Adam  of  Genesis 


IN  pursuing  the  story  of  Adam,  we  should  bear 
in  mind  some  considerations  that  have  been 
excluded  by  popular  and  poetic  conceptions; 
the  most  important  of  which  is  the  truth  that  a 
wide  intellectual,  spiritual,  and  moral  range  of 
knowledge  is  not  necessary  to  a  true  and  genuine 
faith  in  God.  Our  Lord  thought  it  necessary  to 
emphasize  this  truth  more  than  once,  and  in  the 
most  impressive  manner.  He  thanked  the  Father 
that  while  the  wise  and  prudent  were  blind  to  the 
highest  spiritual  truth,  it  had  been  revealed  unto 
babes.  He  literally  held  them  up  in  his  arms  as 
models  of  what  a  true  faith  must  be,  and  said  that 
unless  we  should  become  as  one  of  them  we  could 
in  no  wise  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  That 
this  is  law  in  the  spiritual  kingdom  is  also  seen 
in  the  mention  of  the  Psalmist,  who  said  that 
God  ordained  his  praise  in  the  mouths  of  infants. 
With  this  truth  before  us,  we  shall  not  be  dis- 
turbed, though  possibly  somewhat  surprised,  at  the 
description  given  of  Adam  by  Moses.  In  this  par- 
ticular Milton's  noble  absurdities  are  a  wide  and 
wild  departure  from  the  original — directly  contrary 
to  it,  in  fact.  Considered  simply  from  the  stand- 
277 


278     Mtisings  by  Camp- Fire  a?id  Wayside 

point  of   art,   Moses    is  immeasurably    superior  to 
Milton. 

The  Paradise  of  Moses  was  a  broad  country, 
diversified  by  mountains  and  plains  in  which  great 
rivers  rose  and  flowed  to  the  sea.  Of  those  rivers 
only  one  retains  its  ancient  name,  the  Euphrates. 
His  Hiddekel,  east  of  Assyria,  is  probably  the 
Tigris,  and  that  which  encompassed  Ethiopia,  the 
Nile.  The  Pison  is  probably  the  Indus.  Eastward 
in  this  broad  fertile  belt  Moses  located  the  birth- 
place of  man.  We  now  come  to  what  is  so  remark- 
able, the  misconceptions  in  the  traditional,  poetic, 
theological,  and  popular  portraitures  of  Adam.  It 
would  be  interesting,  but  it  is  not  convenient,  to 
draw  these  conceptions  out  in  a  third  parallel  col- 
umn over  against  both  the  results  of  anthropological 
investigation  and  the  Adam  of  Moses  in  Genesis. 
It  will  be  seen  that  science  gives  Moses  a  wonder- 
fully specific,  particular,  and  thorough  vindication. 
The  two  are  here  set  side  by  side  for  close  and  im- 
mediate comparison. 

The  Primitive  man:  The  Adam  of  Moses: 

1.  Wears  no  clothing,  and  i.  Wore  no  clothing.  "He 
is  unconscious  of  any  phys-  was  naked  and  was  not 
ical  or  moral  need  of  it.  ashamed." 

2.  Subsists  on  the  spon-  2.  Subsisted  upon  the  spon- 
taneous products  of  nature,  taneous  products  of  the 
primarily  and  chiefly,  as  his  garden.  "I  give  you,"  said 
dentition  shows,  upon  fruits,  Elohim,  "every  plant  bear- 
seeds,  and  nuts.  ing  seed  and  every  tree  pro- 
ducing fruit.    That  shall  be 


food  fo 


r  you. 


The  Ada7n  of  Geiiesis 


279 


3.  The  primitive  man  is 
devoid  of  moral  perceptions. 
He  does  not  know  the  differ- 
ence between  good  and  evil. 

4.  His  intellectual  powers 
are  undeveloped.  He  has 
but  little  knowledge. 

5.  He  builds  no  home,  but 
lives  in  caves  and  in  the 
rudest  shelters. 

6.  He  has  but  a  few  rude 
tools,  and  they  cutting  instru- 
ments made  of  flint  or  chert. 

7.  He  plans  nothing;  does 
not  till  the  soil. 

8.  His  first  speech  is  in 
giving  names  to  the  animals 
around  him.  He  must  be  able 
to  communicate  concerning 
the  animals  he  would  eat, 
and  those  that  would  eat  him. 

g.  He  has  a  religion.  He 
believes  in  mysterious  per- 
sonal powers  superior  to 
himself,  to  which  he  is  sub- 
ject. 

10.  His  religion  is  anthro- 
pomorphic. His  gods  are 
powerful  men. 


II.  The  first  moral  senti- 
ment to  appear  in  primitive 
man  is  modesty.  He  makes 
a  covering,  at  first  of  leaves. 


3.  Adam  did  not  know  the 
difference  between  good  and 
evil. 

4.  Adam  had  not  eaten  of 
the  tree  of  knowledge. 

5.  Adam  built  no  home. 
Milton  says  he  slept  under  a 
bower  of  roses. 

6.  MosesimpliesthatAdam 
had  cutting  implements.  "He 
dressed  the  trees." 

7.  "There  was  not  a  man  to 
till  the  ground." 

8.  Adam's  first  recorded  ut- 
terance was  in  giving  names 
to  animals. 


9.  Adam  recognized  the 
existence  of  God,  a  being 
superior  to  himself,  to  whom 
he  was  subject. 

10.  He  conceived  of  God 
as  a  powerful  man,  who  was 
accustomed  to  avoid  the  trop- 
ical heat,  and  walk  in  the 
garden  in  the  cool  of  the  day. 

11.  Adam's  first  act  of 
moral  consciousness  was 
prompted  by  modesty.  He 
made  for  himself  an  apron 
of  leaves. 


28o     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

12.  His  first  permanent  12.  Adam's  first  perma- 
clothing  is  the  skins  of  ani-  nent  clothing  was  of  the 
mals.                                               skins    of    animals.      "Unto 

Adam  and  also  to  his  wife 
did  Elohim  make  coats  of 
skins  and  clothed  them." 

13.  Primitive  man  is  an  13.  Adam  was  an  arboreal 
arboreal  animal.  He  finds  individual,  finding  his  habi- 
his  habitat,  food,  and  refuge  tat  and  food  in  and  among 
in  or  among  the  trees.                 the  trees  of  the  garden. 

Here  we  have  thirteen  points  of  description  by 
which  anthropological  science  identifies  and  de- 
scribes the  primitive  man,  not  one  of  which  is  omit- 
ted by  Moses.  Whatever  the  theories  of  the  way 
in  which  the  writer  in  Genesis  came  into  possession 
of  the  knowledge  of  the  primitive  conditions  of  the 
human  race,  it  is  demonstrated  that  he  possessed  it 
without  an  error,  and  anticipated  the  conclusions  of 
modern  research.  The  descriptions  of  the  original 
man  found  in  every  cult  that  was  in  existence  when 
Genesis  was  written,  or  which  the  poets  have  since 
created,  are  from  every  point  of  view  in  wide  con- 
trast with  and  inferior  to  that  of  Moses.  Coarse  of 
material,  low  of  ideal,  crude  in  structure,  and  as 
barren  ethically  as  a  stone,  they  are  only  foils 
which  heighten  the  conception  of  the  Hebrew  bard, 
lawgiver,  and  prophet.  His  is  asthe  veil  of  a  bride, 
which  heightens  a  beauty  which  it  seems  to  conceal. 
A  blue  mist  softens,  but  does  not  obscure,  a  rugged 
landscape.  It  brings  into  view  and  evidence  the 
otherwise  invisible  atmosphere.     Thus  while  Moses 


The  Adam  of  Genesis  281 

does  not  spiritualize  materiality,  a  task  attempted 
by  many  modern  cults  and  philosophies,  he  lets  fall 
upon  it  the  mist  of  spiritual  allegory.  The  clouds 
were  the  first  notice  to  man  that  there  was  a  world 
higher  than  the  earth  upon  which  he  trod.  They 
reflected  the  light  of  the  sun,  and  analyzed  its 
beauty  as  rock  and  tree  could  not.  Thus  appro- 
priately did  Moses  bring  the  spiritual  world  into 
view,  and  so  blended  it  with  the  earth  that  thinkers 
are  even  now  questioning  whether  nature  is  not  the 
supernatural,  and  the  supernatural,  nature. 

Let  us  examine  one  of  these  blending  statements 
— the  most  important  of  them:  It  is  the  author's 
description  of  the  creation  of  man.  It  was  not  a 
fiat,  but  a  proceeding  In  three  stages.  First: 
"Jehovah  Elohim  made  man  of  the  dust  of  the 
earth."  He  formed  his  material  body  of  that  to 
which  it  should  return.  Secondly:  "He  breathed 
into  him  the  breath  of  life."  Had  the  creative 
process  been  arrested  there,  man  would  have  been 
but  one  species  of  animals  among  many,  in  no  wise 
differing  from  them  except  in  form.  Thus  far  in 
the  process  the  work  is  represented  as  acts  of  cre- 
ative activity — creative,  however  executed,  by  what- 
ever expenditure  of  time  and  forces.  But  the  final 
statement  is  in  contrast  so  marked  with  the  two  pre- 
ceding it  as  to  attract  attention:  "And  he  became 
a  living  soul."  We  would  not,  like  the  systematic 
theologian,  erect  an  inverted  pyramid  of  dogmatism 
upon  the  apex  of  a  Hebrew  vowel-point;  but  this 


282     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

change  of  expression  is  noticeable  because  it  brings 
the  statement  of  the  origin  of  man  into  harmony  with 
many  and  all  other  references  made  in  the  Scrip- 
ture to  the  source  of  spiritual  life.  It  is  spoken  of 
as  an  impartation,  not  as  a  creation.  The  divine 
man  sprang  from  the  loins  of  God,  and  is  as  endur- 
ing as  he — was  planted,  not  as  a  finished  statue  is  set 
up,  but  as  the  potentiality  of  manhood  imparted  to 
material  forms,  where  it  began  the  process  of  "be- 
coming" stated  by  Moses;  began  to  unfold,  and 
continued,  and  now  continues,  and  will  until  the 
divine  creative  ideal  is  perfected.  Adam  attained 
the  divine  image  because  his  life  was  thenceforth  of 
the  divine  essence.  He  possessed  to  the  full  meas- 
ure of  his  capacity  all  the  attributes  of  his  Father. 
There  appeared  One  upon  the  earth  of  such  spiritual 
receptivity  that  he  possessed  in  himself  "the  full- 
ness of  the  godhead  bodily."  There  is  no  differ- 
ence between  the  divinity  of  man  and  of  God  but 
this  of  degree,  and  in  this  consists  the  relation  of 
fatherhood,  and  sonship,  which  is  the  essential  and 
elemental  fact  of  the  Christian  religion.  The  denial 
of  the  fatherhood  of  God  and  the  brotherhood  of 
man  is  a  more  specific  and  destructive  atheism  than 
that  which  refuses  to  recognize  the  divine  existence. 
In  addition  to  the  denial  of  the  one  essential  predi- 
cate of  monotheistic  religion,  it  is  necessarily  and 
equally  a  denial  of  the  one  essential  predicate  of 
character  and  morals.  It  is  a  proposition  to  return 
to  the  ethical  status  of  the  solitary  saurians,  upon 


The  Adam  of  Genesis  283 

which  God  found  it  necessary  to  pile  the  hills. 
Take  away  from  us  the  divine  fatherhood  and 
human  brotherhood,  and  every  man  would  be  to 
every  other  man  a  rapacious  enemy.  Better  Saturn, 
who  appeased  his  appetite  by  devouring  his  chil- 
dren, than  the  god  of  the  traditional  theologians, 
who  consigns  them  to  endless  torture  for  the  grati- 
fication of  his  passion  for  personal  glory.  Saturn 
was  a  beast;  this  last  conception  is  of  a  demon. 
The  worst  is  always  proximate  to  the  best  in  morals 
and  religion,  as  extremes  are  proximate  in  mathe- 
matics. It  was  not  till  Christianity,  in  its  benign 
and  heavenly  glory,  rose  upon  the  world,  that 
paganism  itself  paled  into  morning  light  when  com- 
pared with  the  rayless  and  infinite  abysm  of  divine 
iniquity  which  traditional  theologians  presented  as 
representing  the  character  of  Our  Father  in  Heaven. 
Libel  therein  did  its  worst,  and  never  can  be 
exceeded. 

Nay,  verily,  that  paternal  voice  pursues  every 
child  of  Adam  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave:  "Where 
art  thou,  Adam?  What  doest  thou?  Return  to  me, 
my  child."  The  Divine  Father  has  never  forgotten 
the  hour  or  the  trysting-place  where,  as  the  Edenic 
sun  bends  low,  and  the  shadows  of  the  night  fall 
upon  the  world,  he  desires  to  meet  and  commune 
with  his  children.  With  magnificent  prophetic  per- 
ception the  divine  bard  witnessed  the  rejoicing  of 
the  starry  ranks  over  the  birth  of  a  new  order  of 
the  sons  of  God.     They  had  long,  in  silent  wonder, 


284     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

beheld  suns  slowly  wheeling  in  trackless  space,  and 
planets  unfolding  in  the  eternal  calm;  but  broke 
into  glad  acclaim  when  these  new  avenues  and 
receptacles  of  love  appeared, 

Adam  was  an  infant.  He  did  not  know  his 
moral  or  physical  right  hand  from  the  left;  did  not 
distinguish  between  the  paths  of  rectitude  and  of 
wrong;  did  not  know  the  difference  between  good 
and  evil;  had  not  eaten  of  the  tree  of  knowledge. 
He  was,  therefore,  innocent.  This  is  the  sound 
ethic  of  Moses,  the  lawgiver  as  well  as  the  poet  and 
prophet — and  it  is  fundamental  to  every  principle 
of  justice.  Sin  was  as  impossible  to  Adam  as  to  a 
bird  or  flower,  or  to  any  creature  that  has  not  risen 
to  moral  consciousness.  The  infant  of  the  race, 
his  was  the  innocency  of  the  babe.  Moses  does  not 
credit  him  with  positive  and  aggressive  righteous- 
ness. He  had  to  rise  before  he  could  fall;  had  to 
climb  before  he  could  descend.  He  could  not 
know  the  difference  between  good  and  evil  till  he 
had  tasted  both  the  mellow  and  nutritive  sweet  of 
the  one,  and  the  bitter  and  poisonous  sweet  of  the 
other.  His  theology  was  also  that  of  a  child,  a 
simple  anthropomorphism.  God  was  his  father,  in 
form  identical  with  himself  in  body,  mind,  and 
being — living  in  the  garden,  and  walking  abroad, 
as  Adam  did,  in  the  evening.  What  Adam's  child 
was  to  him,  such  was  he  to  God. 

Now,  let  us  see  what  Adam  did  in  Eden  during 
that  epoch  of  his  progress  which  Moses  describes. 


The  Adam  of  Genesis  285 

He  had  no  clothing,  but  on  arriving  at  manhood 
began  to  provide  himself  with  it.  This  was  his  first 
step  forward  into  the  panoply  of  a  man.  He  had 
few  tools — his  life  in  Eden  not  requiring  them. 
The  representation  is  that  bountiful  nature  supplied 
him  with  all  that  he  had  learned  to  desire;  and  that 
he  was  as  happy  as  he  was  innocent  of  the  knowl- 
edge of  civilization  and  its  sins.  It  is  probable 
that  his  first  great  discovery  was  of  the  use  of  fire — 
his  first  conquest  over  the  elemental  forces  of 
nature;  and  in  all  the  inventions  and  discoveries 
of  man  since,  there  was  none  which  approached  this 
in  importance.  It  is  to-day  the  master  discovery  of 
time.  The  garden  eastward  in  Eden  lay  in  the 
poet's  zone.  The  dwellers  there  knew  what  were 
the  treasures  of  the  hail  and  the  snow.  The  rain  is 
for  the  refreshment  of  the  plants  and  the  replen- 
ishment of  springs  and  streams;  but  the  hail  and 
the  snow  and  the  biting  north  wind  are  for  the  nur- 
ture of  mankind.  True  manhood  is  not  a  plant  of 
the  tropics,  where  the  native  sleeps  at  the  foot  of 
the  artocarpus  tree,  and  wakens  to  eat  of  the  fallen 
fruit.  Man  to  come  to  manhood  must  fight,  like 
Hiawatha,  with  Kwasind.  He  must  turn  upon  the 
assailing  storm  and  defy  it.  He  must  wrest  his 
rights  from  nature  during  her  winter  reign  of  frown 
and  austerity.  If  his  children  are  not  to  perish, 
and  his  tribe  to  become  extinct,  he  must  shelter 
them  in  a  home.  It  required  the  frost  and  the 
storm  to  make  the  family,  and  it  requires  the  family 


286     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

to  make  the  state  and  the  church,  and  to  bring  God 
out  of  heaven  to  associate  with  man. 

We  should  here  notice  the  location  of  the  birth- 
place of  man,  as  stated  by  the  author  or  authors  of 
Genesis,  as  at  least  a  coincidence  of  philosophical 
interest.  It  was  eastward  in  Eden,  a  country  which 
we  must  recognize  as  bounded  on  the  north  and 
east  by  the  Caucasian  range  of  mountains  and  their 
southward  trend  beyond  the  valley  of  the  Euphrates. 
It  is  within  that  arc  the  ethnographers  have  found 
the  cradle  of  the  Aryan  races — an  elevated  land 
which  was  familiar  with  the  rigors  of  winter,  and  in 
which  human  life  required  the  exercise  of  thought 
and  forecast,  endurance  and  hardihood.  The  dis- 
tinction between  the  children  of  the  garden  and 
contiguous  races  is  emphasized  with  racial  pride. 
He  notices,  as  part  of  the  penalty  of  Cain's  crime, 
that  he  was  an  exile,  marrying  a  wife  and  building 
a  city  of  a  different  people  and  in  a  distant  country. 
The  commingling  of  better  with  the  inferior  races  he 
speaks  of  as  the  marriage  of  the  sons  of  God  with 
the  daughters  of  men.  We  are  not  justified  in  re- 
garding this  as  a  mythological  statement.  It  is 
plainly  an  historical  fact  in  poetic  form.  The  union 
of  one  man  with  one  woman  in  a  true  and  faithful 
bond  marked  the  moral  and  intellectual  metamor- 
phosis of  Adam  out  of  the  earth  earthy.  It  is  to 
be  observed  that  the  story  of  Adam  by  Moses 
teaches  monogamy  and  chastity;  that  all  other 
descriptions  of  the  origin  of  man  teach  polygamy. 


The  Adam  of  Genesis  287 

Eve  was  a  part  of  Adam's  life  and  being,  with  him- 
self constituting  the  unit  called  man;  while  all 
others  represent  the  wife  as  an  instrument  and  a 
chattel.  Monogamy  constitutes  perfect  manhood, 
while  polygamy  represents  a  monstrosity,  a  hydra. 
When  I  see  a  pair  of  birds,  each  bearing  its  part  in 
sheltering  and  rearing  their  young,  I  say  they  are 
no  longer  of  the  lower  animals.  They  have  risen 
above  a  large  portion  of  the  human  race  in  the  scale 
of  moral  being,  and  have  a  better  claim  on  the  boon 
of  immortality. 

The  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  is  the  summa- 
tion of  all  knowledge — the  one  knowledge  to  which 
every  discovery  of  fact,  truth,  or  their  inter-rela- 
tions is  a  contribution.  Of  the  highest  value,  it 
demands  the  greatest  price.  The  author  of  the 
story  of  Adam  depicts  very  clearly  the  consequences 
of  the  eating  of  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil.  Adam  could  no  longer  dwell  in  Paradise. 
The  boughs  of  the  trees  of  the  garden  refused  to 
bend  down  to  his  hand  with  fruits  adequate  to  his 
increasing  wants  and  desires.  Nature  nurtured 
him  as  a  babe,  but  cast  him  off  when  he  became  a 
man,  not  in  wrath,  but  in  love;  not  in  disgust,  but 
with  a  mother's  wisdom  and  pride  in  her  wonderful 
child.  She  had  been  looking  forward  to  and  pre- 
paring for  this  "far-off  divine  event"  through  many 
toilsome  and  patient  ages.  She  had  tamed  the 
earth  of  its  rocky  savagery,  and  reduced  it  to  undu- 
lating hills  and  fertile  and  lovely  valleys.     She  had 


288     Musmgs  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

arrested  the  broods  of  chaos,  the  reptilian  giants  of 
old,  and  locked  them  up  in  fetters  and  prisons  of 
stone  beneath  the  hills.  Having  done  for  man 
what  he  could  not  do  for  himself,  that  and  nothing 
more,  she  left  the  balance  of  forces  between  him 
and  his  competitors  in  his  favor,  but  not  in  his  favor 
without  strenuous  and  disciplinary  effort.  I  have 
said  Nature,  but  when  we  contemplate  this  design, 
this  wisdom,  this  perfection  of  processes  and  means 
to  the  accomplishment  of  a  high  and  benevolent 
purpose,  we  cannot,  without  doing  violence  to  our 
reason,  fail  to  bow  our  heads  and  substitute,  with 
voiceless  homage,  the  holy  name  of  God. 

Adam  the  man  must  thenceforth  win  his  way 
with  the  strength  of  his  arms  and  the  sweat  of  his 
face.  The  discontent,  which  came  of  his  eating  of 
the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  precipitated 
the  long  battle  for  the  conquest  of  the  earth.  It 
was  a  huge  and  apparently  a  hopeless  task.  The 
serried  hosts  of  thorns  and  thistles,  in  numbers  that 
no  arithmetic  could  tell,  lifted  their  swords  and 
spears  against  him.  He  was  the  sworn  enemy  of 
them  all,  and  they  of  him.  It  was  a  war  for  the 
possession  of  the  earth,  which  they  held  by  title  of 
immemorial  possession,  and  which  they  would  yield 
only  to  force.  Nor  was  there  any  prospect  that  it 
would  ever  cease.  Beaten  down  by  stalwart  blows 
and  swept  from  the  field,  they  returned  to  renew 
the  attack.  He  never  acquired  a  square  foot  of 
soil  which  the  thorns  and   thistles  did  not  inces- 


The  Adam  of  Genesis  289 

santly  invade  and  attempt  to  reclaim.  He  cannot 
have  even  a  small  patch  of  lawn  without  standing 
guard  over  it.  He  cannot  have  a  rose  or  lily,  a 
cherry,  nor  a  grain  of  wheat  without  a  fight  for  it. 
In  sorrow  and  in  toil  must  he  eat  bread  all  the 
days  of  his  life.  That  was  a  momentous  commis- 
sion which  Elohim  put  into  the  hands  of  Adam: 
"Subdue  the  earth  and  have  dominion  over  it."  It 
was  against  the  plainest  dictates  of  reason  to  com- 
mit such  an  enterprise  to  the  hands  of  a  soft-fin- 
gered child.  It  was  the  ultimate  of  unreason,  and 
with  a  million  chances  that  he  would  fail  to  one 
that  he  would  succeed;  but  Elohim  knew  and  did 
not  hesitate.  "Subdue  the  earth  and  have  dominion 
over  it,"  both  a  great  commission  and  a  wise  com- 
mand. 


Adam's  Conquests 


THERE  was  sometimes  music  in  the  usually- 
silent  forest.  The  wind  blew  mournful  notes 
on  the  flutes  of  hollow  trees.  There  was 
a  breathing  of  the  pines  and  a  foamy  sound  in 
the  aspens;  and  more  marked  than  all,  a  great 
violin.  This  was  formed  of  a  cavernous  and  sea- 
soned gum  tree,  dead  and  dry,  but  still  stand- 
ing, which  was  crossed  by  the  resinous  arm  of 
a  pine.  All  these  gave  tongue  to  the  fury  of  the 
storm,  which  with  the  pattering  roar  of  the  rain, 
the  flying  of  broken  branches,  the  downward  crash 
of  fallen  trees,  the  stunning  shocks  of  thunder 
and  the  quivering  lances  of  lightning,  was  not 
only  the  most  awe-inspiring  and  terrifying,  but 
the  most  dangerous  display  of  nature  in  Paradise. 
Adam,  crouching  in  the  security  of  his  rocky  cave, 
peering  out  upon  the  scene,  beheld  war  in  heaven, 
heard  the  shouts  of  the  furious  gods,  beheld  his 
friends  and  protectors,  the  trees,  bending  with 
frowning  brows  before  the  wrathful  and  tremendous 
onset,  and  then  striking  back  with  their  gnarled  and 
knotty  arms.  As  the  storm  subsided  he  heard  the 
great  violin,  whose  piercing  notes  had  risen  con- 
tinually above  the  roar  of  the  storm,  now  playing 
290 


Adams  Conquests  291 

a  mournful  requiem.  This  instrument  was  to  him 
something  special,  new,  and  highly  mysterious — an 
invisible  creature  which  crooned  in  the  calm  and 
gave  out  shrieks  of  terror  and  rage  in  the  tempest. 
He  crouched  and  listened  to  its  weird  cries  in  the 
night.  When  the  morning  dawned  he  emerged  from 
his  lair  and  scanned  the  surrounding  forest  for  sign 
of  life  or  motion;  stole  a  few  steps  softly,  and 
tested  the  air  with  ear  and  nostril;  his  quick  eyes 
glanced  up  the  trees,  from  their  roots  to  their  tops, 
and  rested  with  piercing  gaze  upon  the  shadows. 
Then  came  a  subdued  moan:  surely  the  object  of 
his  search,  whether  a  god  or  beast,  had  been 
wounded  in  the  battle  and  was  complaining  of  its 
pain.  The  tone  assured  him,  at  least,  that  it  was 
grieved,  not  angry.  On  he  stole  again,  keeping 
now  the  bole  of  one  great  tree  and  now  that  of 
another,  and  then  a  clump  of  bushes,  between  him 
and  the  object  of  his  search.  He  was  startled  now 
with  the  snort  and  rush  and  pounding  gallop  of  a 
fleeing  moose,  and  amused  again  at  the  imperti- 
nence of  an  inquisitive  squirrel,  and  interested  in 
the  whirring  flight  of  a  pheasant,  whose  descent  he 
marked  with  his  eye.  His  courage  rose.  The 
object  of  his  quest  was  wounded  and  must  be  dying, 
and  he  advanced  upon  it  with  confidence.  He  could 
hear  it,  but  it  was  invisible — surely  it  was  one  of  the 
gods  left  by  his  companions  alone  there  to  die.  He 
had  no  sympathy  with  the  wounded  god;  on  the 
contrary,  he  was  possessed  of  a  keen  desire  to  take 


2Q2     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

advantage  of  his  misfortune  and  slay  him.  Hearing 
his  fitful  moaning  by  day  and  night,  the  search  had 
a  fascination,  mingled  with  wonder  and  fear,  such  as 
Adam  had  never  felt  before.  He  was  about  to 
break  into  the  realms  of  mystery  and  see  for  him- 
self what  was  there.  He  hoped  to  look  upon  one 
of  the  warriors  that  had  taken  part  in  the  night 
battle  in  the  skies.  At  last  he  located  the  mysteri- 
ous thing  at  the  crossing  of  the  tops  of  two  trees, 
one  of  which  had  fallen  into  the  arms  of  the  other; 
but  he  could  not  see  it — verily,  it  was  a  god!  As  the 
sun  rose  over  the  trees  the  breeze  grew  stronger 
and  the  mysterious  being  uttered  growls  and  shrieks 
of  defiance.  Smoke  issued  from  between  the  inter- 
locking arms.  Suddenly  flames  leaped  up  and 
curled  and  seethed  through  the  piny  foliage. 
Adam  fled  precipitously  to  his  cave.  When  the 
night  again  came  down  he  saw  a  huge  yellow  ser- 
pent writhing  along  the  mountain-side.  It  cast  its 
coils  around  dry  trees  and  mounted  to  their  tops. 
Every  bird  and  every  living  thing  fled  from  this 
monstrous  thing.  The  tiger  and  the  cave-bear, 
which  feared  nothing  on  earth  but  each  other,  raced 
away  in  terror,  heedless  of  the  galloping  urus  and 
bounding  stags,  and  plunging  herds  of  stampeded 
elephants.  Why  should  this  dragon,  which  could 
clasp  the  mountains  in  its  wrath,  have  whimpered 
and  moaned  in  the  tops  of  the  trees?  It  was  plain 
that  every  living  thing  knew  his  power  and  dreaded 
it,  the  lion  no  less  than  the  hare,  the  eagle  no  less 


Adam  s  Conquests  293 

than  the  sparrow.  Nothing  on  earth  dared  him  in 
open  combat. 

Adam  had  abundant  time  for  reflection.  His 
range  of  thought  was  narrow,  but  concentrated. 
There  were  other  musical  trees,  as  he  discovered, 
in  the  forest,  and  he  observed  them  closely.  They 
only  sang  when  the  wind  blew  and  the  trees  swayed; 
and  sometimes  fire  leaped  out.  It  was  his  habit  to 
warm  his  hands  when  they  were  cold  by  rubbing 
them  together.  He  would  warm  himself  by  the  fire 
of  a  prostrate  burning  tree.  His  inquisitive  eye 
was  fixed  closely  on  the  source  of  the  music  and 
the  fire,  and  at  last  the  great  scientific  truth  dawned 
dimly  in  his  mind.  He  had  no  word  for  friction, 
but  he  had  the  thought.  He  had  no  name  for  a 
scientific  experiment,  but  he  had  the  idea.  Select- 
ing two  dry  sticks,  one  of  them  resinous,  he  fixed 
the  one  firmly,  and  grasping  the  other  with  a  hand 
at  each  end,  he  drew  it  with  all  his  strength  and 
pressure  back  and  forth  across  the  other.  They 
smoked  as  he  had  seen  the  trees  do,  and  a  shining 
spark  fell  from  between  them. 

Adam  had  now  made  the  master  discovery,  had 
won  the  crowning  achievement.  He  had  conquered 
and  enslaved  the  fire-god,  and  entered  into  posses- 
sion of  his  resistless  power.  He  soon  observed  that 
while  the  rapacious  animals  fled  from  it,  the  grazing 
and  browsing  animals  were  curious  and  inquisitive 
in  regard  to  it.  The  tiger  and  the  wolf  fled,  while 
the  deer  approached  to  gaze  and  wonder.     Adam 


2Q4     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

utilized  this  knowledge  to  capture  those  he  would 
eat  and  frighten  off  those  that  would  eat  him. 
Now  he  could  command,  when  and  where  he  chose, 
the  terrible  serpent  which  devastated  the  forest  and 
mountain.  He  could  turn  it  loose  in  fury  upon  his 
enemies  or  domicile  it  tamely  in  his  cave.  He  was 
master  of  the  elements,  and  could  create  summer  in 
the  midst  of  winter.  He  was  lord  of  the  beasts, 
because  the  king  of  them  all  was  his  slave — a  pas- 
sionate and  dangerous  servant  at  times,  liable  to 
break  away  from  his  control,  and  from  which  in  his 
wrath  he  must  hide  in  his  cave;  a  slave-god  to  be 
circumvented  with  cunning  and  placated  with  food. 
It  prepared  his  nuts  and  acorns,  his  fish  and  veni- 
son, and  made  them  sweet  and  tender.  It  stood 
sentinel  at  the  door  of  his  cave  and  kept  his  ene- 
mies at  bay  while  he  slept.  Restrained  by  water, 
it  hollowed  out  the  trunk  of  a  tree  for  him  and  gave 
him  his  first  boat,  from  which,  when  he  was  afloat 
in  it,  his  torch  would  show  him  the  fish  deep  down 
in  the  water,  and  the  beasts  roaming  on  the  shores, 
but  would  not  let  them  see  him;  so  he  could  steal 
upon  them  with  his  flint-barbed  spear.  By  laying 
one  log  across  another,  the  fire-god  would  cut  both 
of  them  almost  squarely  in  two,  and  enable  him  to 
utilize  them  in  building  a  shelter;  and  at  last — for 
Adam  lived  very  long — he  learned  to  compel  iron 
out  of  tawny  dust  with  fire,  and  fashioned  it  into 
tools  and  weapons  with  which  he  could  go  forth 
armed    for    his    unceasing    battle    with    elemental 


Adams  Conquests  295 

nature.  Ever  since  man  has  marched,  his  fiery 
sword  in  hand:  sword,  winged  steed,  domestic  ser- 
vant, whatever  he  willed  it  to  be.  On  the  wings  of 
fire  he  flies  across  the  continent.  With  hands  of  fire 
he  beats  down  the  waves  of  the  ocean  and  triumphs 
over  them.  With  his  hammer  of  fire  he  smashes 
rocks  beneath  the  sea,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  in  the  depths  of  the  mine;  with  his  hand 
of  fire  he  hurls  missiles  upon  his  enemies  miles 
away.  All  came  of  Adam's  listening  to  the  bass- 
viol  of  the  forest. 

If  Adam  had  been  armed  with  claws  and  fangs 
like  the  tiger,  he  never  would  have  risen  above  the 
moral  and  intellectual  plane  of  the  tiger.  Com- 
pelled to  rely  upon  intelligence  and  reason,  these 
faculties  distinguished  him  and  set  him  at  the  top 
of  the  scale  of  life.  The  lion  needs  no  leonine 
friends  and  has  none.  He  has  no  need  for  protec- 
tion by  the  united  force  of  a  society,  so  he  has  no 
social  instincts.  Out  of  man's  weakness  came  his 
strength;  out  of  his  dependence  came  his  self-reli- 
ance; out  of  his  dangers  came  his  safety;  out  of 
his  hatreds  came  his  loves. 

Adam  lived  long,  but  not  so  long  as  Israel,  for 
both  were  more  than  individuals,  and  their  time  far 
exceeded  the  life  of  a  man.  Their  names,  origi- 
nally personal,  became  ethnical,  and  they  lived  in 
their  descendants.  This  was  the  only  perpetuity 
and  immortality  that  they  knew.  It  was  not  till 
their  family,  their  gens,  perished,  or  were  merged 


2q6     Mtisings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

and  lost,  that  they  were  said  to  die.  Ten  of  the 
sons  of  Jacob  are  dead,  two,  Judah  and  Benjamin, 
are  still  living,  marvels  of  youth  in  hoary  age. 

Adam  knew  that  though  he  was  master  of  fire, 
king  of  beasts,  and  lord  of  the  world,  he  was  him- 
self dependent;  that  he  and  they  were  creatures  of 
an  over-all  Ruler.  Standing  highest  in  the  ranks 
of  life,  could  he  not  aspire  to  a  knowledge  of  and 
communion  with  the  Highest?  His  soul  heard  the 
word  of  the  Lord  God  in  the  garden;  heard  it  as  he 
looked  up  into  the  over-arching  stars;  heard  it  call- 
ing to  him,  "Where  art  thou,  Adam?" — a  voice  that 
is  heard,  and  often  heard,  by  every  son  and  daugh- 
ter of  man:  "Where  art  thou?     What  doest  thou?" 

The  great  apostle  took  Adam,  the  primitive  man, 
when  he  was  of  the  earth  earthy,  as  described  by 
the  author  of  Genesis,  and  contrasted  him  with  the 
One  divine  and  perfect  man  who  was  filled  with  the 
Spirit  of  God  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else.  The  earthy 
Adam,  and  all  that  were  such  as  he,  died  and  re- 
turned to  the  dust  of  which  they  were  constituted. 
The  spiritual  Adam  from  heaven  brought  and 
bestowed  eternal  life.  This  was  simple  of  state- 
ment and  easy  to  be  understood  before  the  fictions 
of  poets  and  the  vanity  of  theologians  had  wholly 
perverted  and  obscured  the  plain  and  true  descrip- 
tion of  Adam,  the  primitive  man,  by  Moses.  Thus 
dogmas  were  invented,  as  unreasonable  as  they 
were  immoral,  which  were  supposed  to  be  consistent 
and  logical  with  the  character  of  the  divine  being 


Adams  Cojiqtiests  297 

they  had  set  up:  which  consistency  no  one  will  be 
disposed  to  deny. 

The  Adam  of  Eden  was  a  prototype  of  the  Adam 
of  Galilee,  so  marked  by  similarities,  and  so  set  off 
against  each  other,  that  the  spiritual  phenomenon 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  Sage  of  Tarsus.  The 
Edenic  Adam  was  homeless,  except  for  the  cave  in 
which  he  was  born,  clad  in  the  simplest  of  known 
garments;  in  hunger  often,  and  in  peril  always. 
He  was  contending  for  the  supremacy  of  the  earth. 
The  Adam  of  Nazareth  was  also  born  in  a  cave; 
was  homeless,  shelterless;  clad  in  the  poorest  of 
raiment;  in  hunger  often,  and  in  peril  always.  The 
one  was  contending  for  supremacy  over  rapacious 
beasts,  the  other  for  the  conquest  and  transforma- 
tion of  rapacious  men ;  the  one  establishing  the  king- 
dom of  man,  the  other  founding  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  Between  the  two  there  was  an  indissol- 
uble unity;  and  here  let  us  consider  the  alignment 
between  the  spiritual  and  the  material. 

When  the  mathematician  announced  that  the 
universe  was  without  limits — infinite  as  space,  and 
ruled  everywhere  by  the  same  laws — and  when  this 
was  followed  by  the  spectroscope,  which  demon- 
strated that  it  is  a  unit  in  materials  as  well  as  in 
forces,  then  science  had  reached  the  broadest 
generalization,  and  philosophy  the  highest  concep- 
tion that  is  possible  to  the  mind  of  man. 

Such,  also,  is  the  unity  of  the  spiritual  with  the 
material.     Our  Lord  possessed  a  true  human  body. 


2q8     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

He  ate,  drank,  slept,  awoke,  partook  of  human  joys, 
endured  human  pain,  and  in  all  points  was  as  we  are. 
Yet  he  was  Lord  over  all  and  blessed  forever. 
There  was  no  seam  in  his  robe,  none  between  the 
human  and  the  divine,  no  inharmony,  no  violence 
of  construction.  The  divine  and  the  human  met  as 
two  rivers  of  water  meet  and  blend  into  a  homo- 
geneous and  inseparable  flood.  He  announced,  as 
he  exemplified,  the  sublime  truth  of  the  spiritual 
unity  and  identity  of  God  and  man.  He  was  one 
with  God  and  one  with  his  brethren.  Here  it  is 
that  the  sublimity  of  the  Mosaic-Pauline  conception 
dawns  upon  the  mind.  It  is  as  when  sailing  along 
the  misty  Alaskan  coast  the  cloudy  curtain  parts, 
and  Shishaldon,  or  St.  Elias,  stands  revealed.  The 
universe,  spiritual  and  material,  is  one,  because  the 
Creator  is  one.  Man,  partaking  of  the  Spirit  of 
Christ,  is  one  with  Him,  and  while  Christ  lives  he 
shall  live  also.  Thus  was  life  and  immortality 
brought  to  light. 

It  has  been  my  highly  prized  privilege  to  return 
to  the  Adamic  conditions  of  existence,  to  live  in 
the  paradise  of  God,  to  taste  the  exquisite  and 
exhilarating  joys  of  primitive  life.  For  delight- 
someness  there  is  nothing  on  the  earth  like  it.  To 
walk  abroad  free  in  the  boundless  and  virgin  forest, 
to  listen  to  the  solemn  spiritual  breathing  of  the 
pines,  to  be  stirred  with  the  melody  of  the  wood- 
thrush,  and  gladdened  with  the  sight  and  sound  of 
sparkling  streams,  to  breathe  the  crystal  air  sweet- 


Adam  s  Conquests  299 

ened  with  the  odors  of  the  woods  and  spiced  with 
the  fragrance  of  balsam  and  birch — compared  with 
this  the  highest  artificial  pleasures  that  wealth  can 
furnish  are  a  weariness.  Adam  was  under  disad- 
vantages, but  after  all  he  was  the  happiest  man  of 
his  race. 

Let  us  return  to  Paradise.  Let  us  forsake  the 
vapid  follies  of  fashion  and  display  and  dissipation, 
and  return  to  a  life  as  simple  and  unostentatious, 
as  benevolent  and  unselfish,  as  that  of  our  Lord. 
Let  us  return  to  simple  faith  in  God  as  our  Heav- 
enly Father,  and  in  our  fellow-man  as  our  brother. 
Let  us  free  ourselves  from  the  vain  complexities  of 
theology,  philosophy,  and  of  living,  and  rise  to  the 
pure,  free  air,  and  to  the  simple  dignity  and  worth 
of  true  manhood  and  womanhood.  Let  us  go  back 
and  dwell  with  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  Garden  of 
Eden. 


Adam's  IVife 


MAN  is  like  a  forest  lake.  He  reflects  the 
sky  above  him,  the  clouds  that  pass  over 
him,  the  trees  which  grow  along  his 
shores.  He  dimples  in  the  rain,  ripples  in  the 
wind,  is  somber  in  the  darkness,  sparkling  in  the 
light,  placid  in  the  calm,  and  angry  in  the  storm. 
While  woman  is  also  a  reflector,  often  the  man 
both  bounds  and  fills  her  horizon,  so  that  she  is 
but  a  re-reflection;  a  re-echo,  diminished  and  soft- 
ened. Adam's  wife  was  not  made  for  herself,  but 
for  the  solace  of  Adam — so  runs  the  Hebrew 
legend.  Eve  never  was  a  little  girl;  had  no 
mother,  brother,  sister,  or  father — was  simply  made 
and  married  out  of  hand.  As  a  child,  though  of 
woman's  stature,  she  was  trustful,  as  a  woman  she 
was  confiding  and  easily  influenced  by  a  stronger 
nature.  She  did  not  know  much,  not  even  so  much 
as  a  knowledge  of  the  difference  between  good  and 
evil.  This  newly  made  child-woman  was  placed  in 
the  near  vicinity  of  a  very  beautiful  fruit  tree,  the 
tree  of  wisdom  and  of  knowledge,  the  fruit  of  which 
the  author  of  the  Proverbs  extols  in  endless  repe- 
titions and  variations.  As  most  temptingly  dis- 
played before  the  eyes  of  the  child-wife,  it  was 
300 


Adams  Wife  301 


attractive  to  the  eye,  delightful  to  the  taste,  and 
good  for  food:  both  wholesome  and  nutritious;  but 
she  was  forbidden  to  touch  or  taste  it.  Why? 
Because  it  would  be  morally  wrong  to  do  so?  No; 
for  Eve,  not  knowing  the  difference  between  moral 
right  or  wrong  until  she  had  eaten  of  the  fruit, 
could  not  be  influenced  by  such  a  consideration. 
The  reason  given  for  the  prohibition  is  "lest  ye 
die" — not  as  Satan  lyingly  perverted  it,  "ye  shall 
surely  die,"  and  which  perversion  is  largely  em- 
ployed in  the  construction  of  "systematic"  theol- 
ogy. Elvah  did  not  say  that  Eve  would  cer- 
tainly die  if  she  ate  of  the  fruit,  but  that  the  new 
relation  to  moral  responsibility  to  which  it  would 
bring  her  was  full  of  danger.  She  would  be  liable 
to  die. 

Eve  very  naturally,  we  may  say  inevitably,  which 
is  the  Calvinistic  position,  confided  in  the  tempter, 
plucked  and  ate,  and  with  wifely  devotion  shared  it 
with  her  husband.  Eve  appears  at  a  moral  advan- 
tage over  all  the  other  parties  to  this  transaction. 
She  acted  naturally,  trustfully,  affectionately,  and 
confidingly,  as  an  innocent  and  guileless  child-wife 
would.  But  she  was  surrounded  by  a  bad  lot, 
among  them  a  cowardly  husband.  It  is  really  a 
very  pretty  antique,  which  neither  literature  nor  art 
has  thus  far  cleared  of  theological  and  scholastic 
dust  and  soot.  I  take  it  to  be  an  allegory  of  in- 
nocence and  trustful  inexperience,  surrounded  by 
superior  knowledge  and  by  guile,  misled,  betrayed, 


3o2     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

and  then  made  to  suffer  the  penalty  of  others'  sins. 
This  is  no  unusual  incident  in  the  tragedy  of  life. 

This  pretty  story  of  Eve  has  been  made  the  sub- 
ject of  scrutiny  by  spectacled  owls  who  had  not  the 
least  capacity  for  appreciating  either  its  simple 
naivete  or  its  significance.  Upon  it  these  commen- 
tators and  exegetes  have  built  a  system  of  woman 
slavery  which  is  as  hoary  with  iniquity  as  with 
antiquity.  Now,  if  Eve  had  been  driven  out  of  the 
garden  for  killing  and  eating  the  tanagers,  the 
thrushes,  the  song-sparrows,  vireos,  bobolinks,  and 
other  birds  of  paradise,  or  for  pouncing  upon  the 
wood-ducks,  which  gave  color  and  charm  to  the 
shimmering  Gihon,  there  might  have  been  some 
show  of  justice  in  putting  her  out.  But  for  eating 
of  a  fruit  that  was  temptingly  held  to  her  hand  by 
the  bending  bough,  the  color  of  which  gladdened 
her  eye,  the  fragrance  of  which  breathed  upon  her 
face,  and  the  flavor  of  which  was  a  delight — to  heap 
her  with  accusations  and  contumely,  to  lay  upon 
her,  for  this,  the  blame  for  all  the  meanness  and 
cruelty  which  afterward  appeared  in  the  world, 
shows  what  an  unfilial,  unjust,  unreasonable,  and 
generally  mean  parcel  of  her  descendants  they  were 
who  afterward  took  up  the  business  of  philosophy 
and  theology;  men  who  would  even  make  a  type  of 
super-orthodoxy  out  of  the  disparagement  and 
degradation  of  women.  Those  who  have  observed 
pretty  closely  notice  that  men  who  do  it  are  trying 
to  get  credit  with  the  Lord  and  the  church  out  of 


Adam  s  Wife  303 


their  meanness.  A  man  who  has  no  genuine  hom- 
age for  woman,  though  many  have  for  her  influence 
or  money,  is  the  most  fitting  mark  for  the  contempt 
of  mankind.  We  have  idealized  and  made  pretty 
rites  out  of  the  customs  and  laws  of  the  old  sav- 
agery. The  wedding-ring  is  a  survival  of  the  fetter 
which  fastened  her  wrist  when  she  was  first  cap- 
tured. The  bridegroom's  "best  man"  represents 
the  stout  warrior  who  went  with  the  groom  to  help 
him  steal  her  and  get  safely  away  with  her.  It  is 
not  so  very  long  since  all  women  were  owned,  sold, 
traded  in,  like  cattle.  The  husband  was  not  only 
privileged,  but  required  by  custom,  to  whip  her. 
An  old  Welsh  law,  still  existent,  provides  that  three 
blows  with  a  broomstick  on  any  part  of  her  person 
except  her  head  is  necessary  and  sufficient;  or  he 
might  use  a  stick  no  longer  than  his  arm  nor  thicker 
than  his  middle  finger.  It  was  the  custom  in  Russia 
for  the  father  to  strike  the  bride  gently  with  a  new 
whip  and  then  hand  it  over  to  the  groom.  In  Cro- 
atia the  bridegroom  now  boxes  the  bride's  ears,  and 
in  Hungary  he  kicks  her,  after  the  marriage  cere- 
mony. 

That  is  nice  company  for  a  manly  man  and  a 
gentleman  to  be  associated  with,  theologically  or 
otherwise,  isn't  it?  They  are  not  up  to  the  moral 
standard  of  the  stags  and  bears.  No  wild  animal 
will  offer  violence  to  his  female.  The  Americans 
have  led  in  the  emancipation  of  woman,  securing 
for  her  the  rights  of  a  human  being,  and  of  a  citizen 


304     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

in  her  person  and  property;  and  no  one  has  done 
so  much  to  inspire  and  lead  this  advance  as  Susan 
B.  Anthony;  and  yet  she  was,  until  within  a  quar- 
ter of  a  century,  the  butt  of  general  ridicule. 

Eve  walked  in  advance  of  Adam  in  the  path 
which  led  to  moral  consciousness:  to  manhood  and 
womanhood.  This  is  clearly  implied  in  the  mosaic 
story  of  Eve,  and  was  verified  in  his  usual  happy 
and  convincing  way  by  the  late  Henry  Drummond. 
She  rose  above  his  moral  plane  and  led  him  in  the 
ascent.  She  was  the  first  to  eat  of  the  tree  of  ethi- 
cal knowledge.  She  was  the  first  to  become  discon- 
tent with  a  homeless  life  under  the  trees  of  Paradise, 
and  to  ask  for  permanent  and  secure  shelter  for 
herself  and  her  little  ones.  Her  absorbing  passion 
was  child-love,  a  fierce  and  jealous  affection,  which 
is  no  longer,  in  the  highest  civilizations,  necessary 
for  the  protection  of  children,  and  which  has  con- 
sequently become  softened  and  modified.  She 
could  not  be  content  with  carrying  the  youngest 
out  of  danger  to  the  tops  of  the  trees;  she  must 
protect  her  whole  brood.  Hence  the  stone-barri- 
caded cave,  at  once  a  fortress  and  a  home,  the 
hearth-fire,  the  family,  and  the  most  elevating  and 
refining  influence  that  ever  fell  upon  men — mother 
love. 

It  has  frequently  been  said  by  ecclesiasticians 
that  women  have  nothing  to  complain  of  against  the 
church;  that  they  owe  all  the  emancipation  they 
now  enjoy  to   Christianity.     That   is   true,   if   by 


Adam  s  Wife  305 


Christianity  be  meant  the  example  and  teachings  of 
Christ,  the  tenderest  and  gentlest  respecter  of  the 
rights  of  womanhood  who  ever  lived;  but  it  is  not 
true,  if  by  Christianity  is  meant  the  mass  of  dogmas 
and  customs  which  the  ecclesiastician  regards  as 
constituting  Christianity. 

There  really  has  not  been  so  much  change  in  the 
usurpations  of  women  as  some  conservative  theo- 
logians seem  to  think.  There  was  the  Puritan 
Captain  Underhill — 1637.  He  says  in  his  "Newes 
from  America":  "It  were  strange  to  nature  to 
think  a  man  should  be  bound  to  fulfil  the  humor  of 
a  woman,  what  arms  he  should  carry,  and  so  forth; 
but  you  see  God  will  have  it  so,  that  a  woman 
should  overcome  a  man.  Therefore  let  the  clamor 
be  quenched  I  daily  hear  in  my  ears,  that  New 
England  men  usurp  over  their  wives  and  keep  them 
in  servile  subjection";  and  the  captain,  to  be  sure 
that  he  had  Scripture  for  submitting  to  his  wife, 
says,  "Instance  Abraham."  But  the  captain  did 
not  want  to  be  misunderstood.  There  were  to  be 
limits  to  feminine  government.  "Yet  mistake 
not,"  he  says,  "I  say  not  that  we  are  bound  to  call 
our  wives  in  council;  but  we  are  bound  to  take 
their  private  advice." 

Now,  you  will  see  how  nicely  the  captain  got 
around  it.  What  a  man  is  bound  to  do,  that  is  law 
and  necessity  for  him.  He  was  not  afraid  of  his 
wife — not  he.  He  did  not  make  a  sentinel  of  him- 
self to  guard   his  private  demesne  from  her  inva- 


3o6     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

sions.  He  took  his  medicine  like  the  good  and 
brave  warrior  that  he  was. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  alarm  when  missionary 
societies,  and  other  organizations  of  women,  began 
to  show  strength.  One  learned  divine  said  to  me: 
"They  will  not  be  allowed  to  usurp  authority,  no 
matter  what  they  accomplish. "  He  said  it  with  a 
great  deal  of  firmness  and  resolution.  I  could  see 
from  his  eye  that  though  he  was  scared,  he  had  the 
courage  of  his  convictions,  and  was  ready  to  hurl 
theological  defiance  at  "one  and  all"  of  the  gentle 
missionary  and  temperance  women;  but  it  is  not 
necessary  to  quote  the  language  of  James  Fitz 
James  to  Roderick  Dhu.  Every  man  who  has  a 
good  wife  ought  to  obey  her — that  is  all  there  is  to 
it.  When  Captain  Underhill  referred  to  the  subject 
condition  of  Father  Abraham,  he  clinched  the  argu- 
ment; and  he  didn't  want  to  hear  any  more  "clamor" 
on  the  subject.  Two  hundred  and  sixty  years  ago 
in  New  England,  a  thousand  years  ago  in  Palmyra, 
four  thousand  years  ago  on  the  Jordan,  it  has  always 
been  the  same — and  there  is  no  use  in  making  any 
more  fuss  about  it. 

I  have  in  memory  a  daughter  of  Eve  who  must 
have  been  very  much  like  her  mother  in  appearance, 
vivacity,  and  freedom.  The  little  girl  was  a  sprite 
of  the  Alleghany  Mountains — flying  flaxen  hair, 
blue  eyes,  small,  white  teeth,  perfect  health,  and 
perfect  freedom.  I  went  over  that  scenery  a  few 
years  ago,  and  could  imagine  what  it  must  have 


Adam  s  Wife  307 


been  in  its  prime.  Nowhere  such  a  spring  as  that 
which  is  now  called  the  "Pearl  of  the  Park." 
Clearer  or  cooler  streams  could  nowhere  steal  from 
the  roots  of  the  mountains,  ever  running  and  ever 
singing,  to  the  river  in  the  valley.  There  were  yet 
remnants  of  the  forest  of  chestnut  and  pine.  The 
clouds  yet  hung,  of  a  spring  morning,  along  the 
mountain-sides.  The  blue  haze  was  still  there, 
softening  the  distance.  It  was  in  this,  then  fresh, 
paradise  that  the  new  little  Eve  was  born,  and  in 
which  she  was  as  free  as  a  bird.  Her  father  was 
superintendent  of  new  and  extensive  iron  mines 
then  opened  in  the  mountain.  Among  other  duties 
he  looked  after  the  wood-choppers  and  charcoal- 
burners  in  the  mountains,  and  thus  was  much  on 
horseback,  often  with  his  little  Eve  as  his  favorite 
companion.  Vacation  days  he  went  hunting  or 
fishing,  always  taking  the  little  girl  along.  Thus 
she  came  to  know  the  country  all  about,  and  as 
every  one  knew  the  superintendent's  daughter — the 
proprietors  of  the  works,  the  miners,  foresters,  coal- 
burners,  teamsters,  Sunday-school  teachers,  and  all 
— she  received  kindness  wherever  she  went,  and  thus 
was  without  fear.  She  did  not  even  fear  the  rattle- 
snakes— great  shiny,  mottled  fellows  which  sounded 
their  alarm  to  warn  her  to  keep  out  of  danger.  She 
must  have  been  quite  young  the  day  when  she  went 
up  the  mountain  to  gather  dewberries,  and  was 
noticed  by  a  passing  teamster  as  she  stood  looking 
at  a  great  "rattler."     He  led  her  out  of  danger. 


3o8     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

killed  the  snake,  and  went  away.  When  she  had 
filled  her  small  pail,  she  lifted  the  venomous  reptile, 
hung  it  upon  her  shoulder,  and  carried  it  home!  If 
one  of  its  exposed  fangs  had  come  in  contact  with 
her  tender  skin,  little  Eve  would  have  had  an  ex- 
perience even  more  tragical  than  that  which  befell 
her  first  ancestress. 

I  first  saw  the  young  girl  when  she  had  not 
reached  the  age  of  fifteen,  was  just  emerging  from 
little-girlhood  into  young-womanhood.  It  was  at 
a  reception  party  given  to  me  as  "the  new  editor." 
There  was  much  merriment  in  a  little  circle  in  one 
corner  of  the  parlors,  and  I  heard  a  young  lady 
addressed  as  "Kitty  Clover,"  and  noticed  that  the 
one  so  spoken  to  was  very  young,  and  as  I  thought, 
very  pretty.  Near  three  years  drifted  by,  when,  as 
Bayard  Taylor  says,  the  lightest  heart  made  heavi- 
est mourning.  Her  father  died.  Her  adored 
mother  was  fast  following  him.  It  could  not  be 
long  till  the  young  girl  would  be  alone  in  the  world. 
So  the  death  that  had  so  recently  been,  and  the 
death  that  was  so  soon  to  be,  hastened  us.  I  often 
carried  that  dear  and  most  saintly  mother  about  in 
my  arms,  and  she  was  very  happy — a  happier  death 
could  not  be.  Her  child  was  not  parted  from  her. 
That  was  a  blessed  day  when  I  lifted  her  into  our 
first  cottage  home.  It  is  not  possible  that  a  decline 
to  the  end  could  have  had  more  light  in  it.  Her  last 
words  were : ' '  My  sweet  child,  I  am  very,  very  happy. " 

The  half  of  one  short  year  brought  such  trans- 


Adant  s  Wife  309 


formations  as  rarely  come  so  suddenly  into  life — 
father,  mother,  and  the  old  home  gone,  and  the 
new  home  established.  "I  have  almost  lost  my 
identity,"  said  the  so  lately  light-hearted  and  care- 
free young  girl.  Her  path  led  abruptly  down  into 
a  very  dark  and  cloudy  valley,  and  its  clouds  drifted 
after  her  as  she  ascended  the  mountain  beyond,  but 
they  were  illuminated  by  the  sunrise  of  both  this 
world  and  of  that  to  which  we  are  now  hastening. 
It  verily  seems  that  that  mother  and  daughter  are 
not  yet  parted. 

Last  summer,  one  night,  the  lady  dreamed  that 
she  saw  her  mother  walk  slowly  down  to  the  margin 
of  the  lake  and  stand  beckoning  to  her  to  come 
over.  Now,  call  it  superstition  if  you  will,  still  I 
believe  in  the  verity  of  such  visions  with  as  much 
simplicity  of  faith  as  Paul  or  John  did — and  nearly 
every  one  does,  whether  he  confess  it  or  not — 
marking,  however,  the  great  difference  between 
them  and  the  forms  and  shadows  cast  upon  earthly 
clouds  of  sleep  by  the  dim  light  of  half-conscious- 
ness. This,  she  thought,  might  be  a  real  revela- 
tion of  the  narrowness  and  nearness  of  the  voyage, 
but  I  said  it  was  probably  nothing  more  than  a  sig- 
nal of  longing  and  impatience  to  have  her  come.  I 
think  they  do  get  tired  waiting,  over  there.  Why 
shouldn't  they?  I  reckon  the  cottage  over  there 
will  be  better  than  the  one  we  three  moved  into 
forty-five  years  ago,  but  I  don't  believe  we  will  be 
much  happier  people  than  we  were  that  day. 


3IO     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

Looking  up  from  my  paper,  and  out  of  the  open 
door,  I  see  that  the  air  is  sparkling.  The  opposite 
shore  of  the  lake  appears  to  have  come  half-way  to 
meet  me.  The  leaves  are  fluttering  in  the  crisp 
breeze,  and  I  am  reminded  that  wife  and  I  are  to 
go  to  Clear  Lake  fishing — and  some  way  it  appears 
to  me  that  we  will  drift  on  its  secluded  and  shaded 
waters  for  the  last  time.  Many  the  day  that  we 
have  together  gazed  down  at  the  tangled  forest  of 
water-ferns  in  its  clear  depths,  watched  the  rise  of 
the  loons,  listened  to  the  birds  on  its  shores,  and 
admired  the  wild  deer  which  came  down  to  drink. 
But  once  more: 

We  will  drift,  as  we  have  drifted,  down  the  winding  River 

Time, 
From  the  spring-lake  of  the  morning  till  the  ocean  rolls 

sublime, 
Just  beyond  yon  veiling  forest.     Hear  its  thunder  in  the 

breeze ! 
See  its  breakers  through  the  vistas  'mid  the  branches  of  the 

trees ! 

Nor  have  cared  we  what  should  wait  us,  hidden  by  the  river's 

bend. 
Rocky  rapids,  or  calm  waters,  or  the  winding  journey's  end; 
For  we  knew  we  two  together  would  be  happy  while  afloat, 
And  be  merry  at  a  portage  while  we  lifted  at  our  boat. 

And  we  shall  be,  dearest,  ever,  when  we  pass  yon  moaning 

sea 
We  will  find  another  river  somewhere  waiting  you  and  me. 
Where  the  valleys  are  enchanting  and  the  mountains  rise 

sublime. 
We  will  find  a  better  river  than  the  winding  River  Time. 


Adam  the  Hunter 


ADAM  had  no  sooner  learned  to  convert  his 
floating  log  into  a  canoe  by  the  use  of 
fire,  than  it  silently  bore  him  into  a  before 
unknown  pleasure  of  Paradise.  He  had  no  other 
projectile  than  his  flint-bladed  spear,  hurled  by  his 
sinewy  arm.  To  bring  him  within  reach  of  his 
quarry  the  greatest  stealth  and  patience  were  re- 
quired, and  he  was  often  disappointed.  Now,  with 
his  lovely  Eve  propelling  his  canoe,  and  his  torch 
held  aloft,  he  could  approach,  unsuspected,  what- 
ever living  thing  might  be  frequenting  the  shores 
of  river  or  lake.  Adam  always  chose  a  night  on 
the  dark  of  the  moon,  when  the  wind  was  still  and 
the  atmosphere  clear  of  fog.  It  remained  for  one 
of  his  sons,  who  was  also  his  devoted  disciple  and 
admirer,  some  twenty  thousand  or  two  millions  of 
years  later,  to  make  the  discovery  that  in  a  lighter 
and  swifter  canoe  livelier  sport  was  to  be  had  in 
the  full  light  of  the  moon. 

We  watched  the  sun  descending  with  the  impa- 
tience of  school-boys,  as  we  were  to  go  that  night 
to  make  the  experiment  of  a  moonlight  fire-hunt,  a 
thing  that  Adam  would  have  said  to  be  fatuous  and 
impossible.  I  polished  the  reflector  of  my  lamp  till 
3" 


3 1 2     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

it  shone  like  molten  silver,  polished  the  tube  of  my 
gun  till,  held  against  the  light,  it  looked  as  if  it 
were  loaded  to  the  muzzle  with  sunbeams.  A  dark 
night  fire-hunt  is  intensely  exciting.  Some  years 
ago  some  kind  of  a  cat,  a  wolverine  or  lynx,  went 
bounding  down  the  shore,  turning  its  big  balls  of 
fire  on  my  lamp  for  a  glance,  and  then  leaping  away 
and  looking  again.  I  tried  to  bring  my  gun  to 
bear,  but  it  was  too  quick,  and  when  it  leaped  into 
the  woods  I  was  panting  as  if  my  breath  were  about 
to  leave  me. 

The  crimson  moon  was  looking  through  the 
eastern  trees,  and  the  afterglow  through  the  west- 
ern, when  Gordon  and  I,  in  moccasined  feet,  started 
on  a  stealthy  tramp.  It  was  at  once  one  of  the 
brightest  and  stillest  of  nights,  not  a  breath  of  air, 
not  a  ripple,  not  the  faintest  whisper  in  the  pines, 
nothing  but  the  big  moon  and  the  flecks  of  light 
through  the  shadows  of  the  forests  on  the  shores. 
Two  hoot-owls  took  advantage  of  the  vacancy  and 
had  the  whole  landscape  for  their  audience.  There 
was  the  difference  of  three  notes  of  the  octave  in 
their  voices,  a  pair,  I  suppose,  serenading  each 
other.  When  they  were  satisfied  with  their  ex- 
changes of  compliments,  they  sped  away  on  their 
noiseless  wings,  flying  in  the  shadow  where  they 
could,  but  crossing  in  white  flashes  the  bars  of 
moonlight.  We  paused  on  the  first  lake  we  came 
to  and  listened.  One's  heart  makes  a  great  deal 
of   noise  at  such   a  time,  and  for  a   moment  we 


Adam  the  Hunter  3 1 3 

thought  we  heard  the  thump,  thump,  of  a  deer  run- 
ning over  the  hill.  There  were  splashings  at  a 
distance  which  must  be  analyzed  by  the  ear. 
"Frogs,"  finally  Gordon  decided  in  a  whisper,  and 
we  went  on,  picking  each  step  on  which  to  plant 
our  feet.  There  was  a  small,  sleek  boat  hidden 
near  another  lake  beyond  us.  We  reached  it, 
launched  it,  letting  it  down  into  the  water  slowly, 
slipped  cartridges  into  our  guns,  lit  the  lamp,  and 
tightened  its  straps  about  my  head.  I  consider 
myself  a  good  boatman,  but  he  is  ahead  of  any  man, 
white  or  red,  I  ever  was  with.  The  boat  appeared 
to  be  stationary,  though  I  knew  we  were  moving, 
and  tried  to  determine  the  rate  of  motion  by  look- 
ing at  the  black  walls  of  the  forests  on  the  shores, 
but  they  gave  no  sign.  Then  I  turned  the  ray  of 
my  lamp  upon  the  water,  and  was  surprised  to  see 
how  swiftly  we  passed  the  floating  bonnet  of  a  lily. 
The  boat  paused  in  the  very  middle  of  the  lake,  to 
which  it  had  made  its  silent  and  ghostly  way. 
Though  sitting  in  the  prow  of  a  boat  with  an  oars- 
man propelling  it,  one  can  scarcely  dissipate  the 
delusion  that  he  is  alone.  The  perfect  boatman 
gives  no  indication  of  his  presence  or  his  work. 
There  is  no  rustle  in  his  unstarched  black  cotton 
shirt,  there  is  no  twist  of  his  hands  on  the  oar, 
there  is  no  dip  or  tinkle  in  the  water.  I  closed  my 
eyes  so  as  to  give  undivided  attention  to  listening, 
but  now  that  the  owls  were  silent,  all  was  silent  as 
a  dream. 


314     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

It  must  be  admitted  that  the  best  night  for  suc- 
cessful fire-hunting  is  dark,  warm,  and  still.  If 
there  be  a  breeze,  the  ripples  rattle  against  the 
sides  of  the  boat.  If  the  air  be  colder  than  the 
water,  the  fog  curls  up  and  reflects  back  the  rays  of 
the  lamp  into  the  hunter's  eyes,  blinding  him.  The 
boat  must  carefully  avoid  rushes,  water-weeds,  or 
lilies.  One  would  not  perceive  the  noise  they  make 
under  any  other  conditions,  but  the  slender  stem  of 
a  rush  will  strike  the  prow  with  a  thump  and  be 
drawn  along  its  side  with  a  resonance  of  a  bass- 
viol.  On  the  dark  night  the  oarsman  listens  while 
the  gunman  watches,  expecting  the  always  startling 
apparition  of  two  great  greenish  yellow  balls  of 
fire.  But  in  the  moonlight  fire-hunt  the  ears  must 
do  all  the  seeking,  and  they  must  be  able  to  detect 
a  small  sound  at  a  long  distance.  Any  kind  of  a 
boat  or  raft  will  do  for  the  dark  night,  but  for  the 
moonlight  the  boat  must  be  small,  light,  polished, 
and  swift.  The  two  requirements  are  silence  and 
celerity.  The  paddle  must  be  short,  four  feet  long, 
broad,  and  sharp  of  edges.  The  oarsman  must 
know  the  speed  at  which  the  boat  is  going,  and 
draw  his  paddle  back  as  it  touches  the  water,  so 
that  it  will  enter  as  if  both  were  stationary.  He 
must  send  it  straight  down  till  his  hand  touches  the 
water.  Then  he  puts  all  the  strength  he  has  on  his 
stroke,  and  there  is  no  noise.  With  a  strong  arm 
and  a  light,  smooth  boat,  the  stroke  sends  it  like  a 
bird. 


Adam  the  Hunter  3 1 5 

I  had  closed  my  eyes  to  listen  more  intently, 
when  a  whispered  "Oh!" — a  sigh — came  from 
behind  me,  and  looking  up,  there  soared  another  of 
those  rare,  weird,  strange  messengers — a  fire-ball! 
the  second  I  have  seen — the  same  moon-faced  nu- 
cleus nearly  as  large  as  the  moon,  the  same  short, 
thick,  writhing  tail,  but  not  the  whip-like  snapping 
which  we  heard  when  one  passed  over  the  island 
four  years  before. 

This  one  was  flying  southwest,  and  seemed  to  be 
describing  a  curve  which  would  bring  it  to  the  earth 
about  a  mile  away;  but  of  course  any  calculation 
of  its  orbit  would  be  guesswork.  The  other  one, 
alluded  to  above,  was  more  striking.  My  wife  and 
sister  were  seated  at  the  camp-fire  while  I  was  about 
to  enter  my  study-cabin  at  the  far  end  of  the  island. 
The  night  was  dark  but  clear,  when  suddenly  the 
ground  was  illuminated,  and  the  shadows  of  the 
pines  began  wheeling  past.  Looking  up,  there 
the  apparition  came,  from  the  southwest.  Com- 
pared with  the  speed  of  a  meteor,  it  moved  quite 
slowly.  It  was  round,  about  the  size  of  the  moon, 
but  much  brighter.  Its  train  about  five  diameters 
of  the  nucleus  in  length,  writhed  and  twisted  like 
a  flame,  and  showed  colors  of  blue  and  yellow. 
The  flame  ended  quite  abruptly,  and  left  no  train 
of  sparks.  It  gave  forth  sounds  almost  identical 
with  that  of  a  flag  snapping  in  the  wind.  It  ap- 
peared to  be  no  more  than  four  or  five  tree-top 
heights  above  the  lake,  and  disappeared  in  the  for- 


3i6     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

ests  northeast.  The  next  day  I  wrote  to  Ashland, 
east,  and  Duluth,  west,  each  forty  miles  away, 
inquiring  if  it  had  been  seen,  expecting  from  the 
two  angles  which  could  be  approximately  remem- 
bered to  be  able  to  triangulate  its  height  when  it 
passed  over  us;  but  it  had  not  been  noticed  at 
either  city.  From  this  I  concluded  that  its  orbit 
was  what  it  appeared  to  us  to  be,  quite  near  the 
earth.  These  fire-balls  have  not  been  explained  by 
the  meteorologists.  They  are  very  rare,  and  I  was 
quite  fortunate  to  have  seen  two  of  them.  Let  us 
now  return  to  Adam's  hunting. 

Motionless  and  silent  we  waited  for  a  time,  when 
I  noticed  by  a  bit  of  brass  on  the  point  of  the  prow 
that  the  boat  was  turning.  This  was  evidence  that 
Gordon's  ear,  quicker  than  mine,  had  caught  the 
splash  of  a  foot.  The  little  boat  fairly  shot  through 
the  water,  and  sharp  as  her  cutter  is,  made  a  tinkle 
at  her  prow.  On  and  on  we  went,  a  half-mile,  when 
a  splash  and  whirr  of  wings  ten  feet  in  front  of  us. 
"Pshaw!"  whispered  Gordon,  "nothing  but  a 
duck"  ;  and  he  turned  and  went  back  to  our  position 
in  the  middle  of  the  lake.  About  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  passed.  I  could  not  lay  my  hands  on  the  side 
of  the  boat  because  they  showed  white  in  the  moon- 
light. The  ache  of  the  strained  position  was  becom- 
ing intolerable,  and  I  was  about  to  change  position 
regardless  of  consequences,  when  again  the  shining 
bit  of  brass  at  the  point  was  seen  to  be  changing  its 
direction.     That  banished  all  thought  of  the  pain. 


Adam  the  Hzmter  3 1 7 

Again  the  boat  shot  like  an  arrow — no  wild  duck 
this  time.  As  soon  as  the  shore  was  approached 
sufficiently  to  determine  its  character,  it  was  seen 
to  be  a  mass  of  rushes  reaching  well  out  into  the 
lake.  We  were  darting  right  at  the  breast  of  the 
rush  bank,  but  nothing  else  was  to  be  seen,  and  to 
prevent  plunging  into  them  Gordon  was  holding 
hard  with  his  paddle  to  arrest  the  motion  of  the 
boat,  when  a  flash-light  picture,  really  the  most 
beautiful  thing  I  ever  saw,  was  printed  on  my  mem- 
ory. A  reflecting  hunting-lamp  makes  a  round  disk 
on  which  everything  appears  light  colored.  A  dead 
tree  is  a  ghastly  white,  green  is  a  light  yellow,  red 
is  gray,  all  the  colors  are  changed.  A  deer  was 
behind  the  rushes  with  his  head  down,  feeding,  and 
therefore  invisible.  Suddenly  raising  it,  there  he 
stood,  his  blue  coat  shining  above  the  yellow  rushes, 
his  large,  lustrous  eye  black  as  a  coal,  his  crown  of 
antlers  white  as  ivory — spirited,  startled,  splendid, 
in  a  nimbus  of  unearthly  light — and  I  not  fifteen 
feet  away!  That  one  instant  would  have  been 
worth  ten  thousand  dollars  to  Rosa  Bonheur. 

A  ministerial  friend  from  Chicago,  Dr.  W.  T. 
Meloy,  visited  me  in  Paradise  one  bright  summer 
day.  I  desired  to  give  him  an  experience  of  the 
sport  Adam  took  his  delight  in,  carried  him  to  the 
North  Twin,  seated  him  in  the  prow  of  a  light 
canoe,  bound  a  reflecting  lamp  over  his  forehead, 
and  with  a  few  deft  strokes  of  the  paddle  cleared 
the    lily-shingled   waters    of    the    shore,    leaving   a 


31 8     Musings  by  Cainp-Fire  and  Wayside 

lighted  lantern  on  the  margin  to  guide  us  back.  A 
wolf  took  umbrage  at  this  proceeding,  and  chal- 
lenged it  with  two  or  three  of  his  high-keyed  half- 
howling  barks.  That  ended  the  hunt  on  the  North 
Twin.      Not  a  deer  would  show  himself. 

The  canoe  was  carried,  the  next  day,  to  a  fine 
large  double  lake,  called  Sand-bar.  We  were  only 
fairly  launched,  the  following  night,  when  a  peculiar 
glow  was  seen  upon  the  wavelets,  the  distant  shores 
came  out  in  full  view,  and  looking  up,  the  sky  was 
overarched,  from  north  to  south  and  from  horizon 
to  horizon,  by  a  spectacle  of  indescribable  magnifi- 
cence— one  which  is  familiar  enough,  no  doubt,  in 
the  sub-polar  regions,  but  certainly  very  rarely  seen 
in  this  latitude.  It  was  a  curtain,  falling  perhaps 
the  distance  of  a  mile,  supported  from  either  side 
by  flitting  rafters  of  light,  and  waving  as  if  blown 
by  the  wind.  The  color  was  what  we  may  call  a 
luminous  ashes  of  roses,  touched  here  and  there 
with  pink  and  yellow.  The  line  of  the  curtain  was 
not  straight,  but  curved  either  way,  and  while  con- 
stantly varying,  kept  to  the  general  direction  of 
north  and  south.  The  scene  changed  as  if  the  cur- 
tain were  rolled  up,  leaving  a  bar  of  the  same  color 
of  light  across  the  sky.  This  began  to  break  and 
divide,  and  soon  faded  from  view.  The  rafters  of 
light  also  became  feebler  and  shorter,  and  vanished. 
Descriptions  of  displays  like  these  are  given  in  the 
literature  of  the  Arctics,  but  always  in  general 
terms,  conveying  no  idea  of  the  utter  strangeness 


Adam  the  Hunter 


319 


and  splendor  of  the  phenomenon.  The  waving  of 
the  great  curtain,  as  if  wind-blown,  was  especially 
impressive. 

Camping  at  Rocky  Cut,  on  the  Michigan  Brule, 
we  were  first  introduced  to  the  mysteries  and  charms 
of  a  fire-hunt  by  old  Adam  himself,  in  the  person 
of  a  Chippewa  chief.  He  had  made  advances  on 
the  original  Adam,  in  that  he  wore  clothing  and 
lived  in  a  log  house,  which,  however,  contained  no 
furniture.  The  women  were  engaged  in  sewing 
birch  bark  with  threads  made  of  the  roots  of  the 
dwarf-pine,  into  those  fine  forms  of  canoes  in  the 
building  of  which  the  Chippewas  had  no  rivals 
among  the  American  Indians.  The  finished  boat 
was  decorated  with  dyes  extracted  from  the  sumac, 
the  blood-root,  the  walnut,  the  bark  of  the  black 
oak,  and  other  such  sources,  the  wild  artistic  values 
of  which  the  artists  did  not  appreciate,  but  which 
were,  in  fact,  what  art  at  its  best  would  have 
selected.  The  little  Cains  and  Abels  of  the  families 
were  practicing  with  their  bows  and  arrows,  and  the 
young  Eves  were  learning  to  prepare  thread  and  to 
sew  the  bark.  It  was  noticed  that  the  garments  of 
the  children  were  sewed  fast  upon  them,  and  were 
not  to  be  changed  or  laundered  so  long  as  they 
would  hold  together.  Probably  this  economic  cus- 
tom originated  with  the  Eve  of  Moses.  When  she 
wished  to  do  her  week's  washing,  all  she  had  to  do 
was  to  pitch  the  children  into  the  river  Gihon,  souse 
and  churn  them,  and  thus  laundry  both  the  child 


320     Musings  by  Camp-Fire  and  Wayside 

and  its  clothing  at  a  single  operation.  Adam — he 
said  his  name  was  Edward — seated  us  in  a  beautiful 
new  canoe,  took  his  place  at  the  stern,  and  began 
the  voyage  with  rapid  strokes.  We  were  to  go 
about  four  miles — to  the  farther  end  of  the  lake. 
There  was  not  a  ripple  on  all  the  surface  of  that 
splendid  mirror.  It  was  autumn,  and  the  lake  was 
set  in  a  double  frame  of  green  and  gold  and  crim- 
son, the  outer  frame  real,  the  inner  one  reflection. 
Adam  handled  his  light  paddle  swiftly  and  with 
skill.  The  oar  took  the  water  at  right  angles  with 
the  line  of  motion,  but  before  the  stroke  was  finished 
it  was  turned  a  little  obliquely,  which  threw  the 
handle  against  the  side  of  the  boat,  and  thus  coun- 
teracted  the  tendency  to  move  in  a  circle.  There 
was  a  loon  party  that  evening.  They  came  with 
weird  laughter  from  far  down  the  lake,  half  flying, 
half  swimming,  their  wings  dashing  the  water  at 
every  stroke,  and  leaving  long  trails  of  dimples 
behind — and  then  such  a  ridiculous  and  cantanker- 
ous performance !  One  must  be  very  crazy  to  merit 
being  called  "crazy  as  a  loon."  Though  in  loon 
country  for  twenty  summers,  I  have  witnessed  but 
one  other  fashionable  party  of  loons.  The  birds 
stuck  their  heads  and  long  necks  straight  up,  then 
sprang  clear  of  the  water,  uttering  the  wildest 
shrieks,  repeating  the  exercise  till  they  were  tired. 
There  were  about  a  dozen  of  the  performers,  while 
as  many  more  were  demurely  looking  on.     Whether 


Adam  the  Hunter  321 

it  were  a  loon  wedding — for  loons  are  faithful  wed- 
ded pairs — or  whether  it  were  a  "social  function" 
of  the  best  aristocratic  society  of  loondom,  it  was 
not  given  us  to  know. 

As  the  sun  sank  down  behind  the  encompassing 
forests  of  that  solitary  and  charming  gem,  a  jewel 
of  aqueous  pearl  set  in  green  for  the  pleasure  of 
God  and  his  angels,  the  frail  boat  moved  swiftly  in 
a  straight  line,  leaving  an  arrow-shaped  trail  of 
shimmering  ripples  in  its  wake.  The  sky  seemed 
so  clear  that  we  did  not  encumber  ourselves  with 
rain-coats;  but  when  a  mile  out,  a  sweeping  shower 
soaked  us  thoroughly.  Three  or  four  strokes 
brought  us  to  a  landing  in  the  universal  forest,  and 
a  quick  fire  set  our  garments  to  steaming.  As  we 
passed  down,  a  young  buck  raised  his  graceful  head 
from  the  reeds  where  he  was  feeding,  gazed  at  us 
a  moment,  and  then  with  a  few  swift  bounds  dis- 
appeared in  his  covert.  At  our  landing-place  we 
could  see  how  these  denizens  of  the  wilds  are  pro- 
vided for.  The  rain  was  sufficient,  one  would  have 
supposed,  to  have  saturated  the  ground,  and  yet 
beneath  the  overarching  pines,  whose  shelter  we 
sought,  the  thick  carpet  of  leaves  was  perfectly  dry. 
In  winter,  with  the  added  clothing  of  snow  on  the 
branches,  this  little  nook  would  be  as  comfortable 
as  the  best  barn,  and  very  much  pleasanter.  When 
we  set  out  on  our  return,  the  Chippewa  wanted  us 
to  have  a  view  of  his  cattle — the  dependence  for 


322     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

himself  and  his  children,  which  the  white  man  is 
rapidly  driving  away  and  exterminating.  He 
brought  out  his  hunting-lamp,  lighted  it,  and  set 
out  for  the  return.  The  bottom  of  the  lake  is  of 
silvery  sand,  and  we  seemed  to  be  floating  in  a  sea 
of  milk.  The  next  thing  that  attracted  attention 
was  that  we  were  moving  in  absolute  silence. 
There  was  not  so  much  as  the  tinkle  of  a  drop  of 
water  from  the  oar.  The  shadow  of  a  cloud  passing 
over  the  lake  could  not  have  been  more  noiseless. 
The  lamp  threw  a  cone  of  nebulous  light  into  the 
reeds  and  woods — what  a  stealthy  ghost  was  that 
red  man  and  his  canoe!  We  passed  the  usual  haunts 
of  the  deer,  and  were  homeward  bound  when  the 
searching  cone  of  light  suddenly  turned  back  and 
paused,  and  at  the  same  time  the  ghostly  canoe 
changed  its  course.  And  what  a  striking  and  fasci- 
nating sight!  The  leafy  shore  as  black  as  ink,  a 
graceful  form  in  outline  upon  it,  and  a  pair  of  dia- 
monds tinged  with  green  color  shining  as  carbon 
diamonds  have  never  shone.  It  would  be  difificult 
to  imagine  that  these  brilliant,  green-tinged  lights 
were  the  eyes  of  a  harmless  deer,  but  very  easy  to 
believe  that  they  were  those  of  a  tiger.  Adam  gave 
the  signal  to  fire  by  a  jar  of  the  boat,  and  the  flame 
shot  out,  a  fierce  and  intense  burst  of  fire,  and  the 
roar  in  those  silences  was  like  that  of  a  cannon.  It 
echoed  from  the  capes  and  came  reverberating  from 
the  forests  across  the  lake  as  if  it  had  filled  all 


Adam  the  Htmier  323 

space.  The  sound  of  such  an  explosion,  relatively 
small  as  it  may  be,  is  magnified  many  times  in  the 
otherwise  absolute  stillness  of  such  a  scene.  When 
the  echoes  subsided  the  perfect  silence  returned. 
The  victim  had  sunk  to  the  earth  without  a  struggle. 


AT      EVENTIDE 


Expiring  Embers  —  A  Study  of  Death 


THE  evening  camp-fire  of  our  lives  burns  low, 
and  the  shadows,  with  stealthy  approach, 
close  around  us.  We  dispel  them  with  a  bit 
of  the  crystallized  sunshine  of  other  days,  a  memory 
which  blazes  up,  as  does  this  resinous  rib  of  an 
ancient  and  forgotten  pine;  but  it,  too,  dims  to  a 
coal,  and  fades  to  ashes. 

There  is  a  sigh  of  a  passing  breeze  in  the  pines, 
the  note  of  a  distant  night  bird — whatever  is  heard 
amid  the  prevailing  silence  is  gentle  and  soothing, 
as  if  Nature  were  fearful  of  disturbing  our  decline 
into  slumber.  We  shall  not  know  when  light  and 
thought  have  passed  away.  It  will  only  be  a  con- 
sciousness of  balmy  restfulness  that  will  soften  as  it 
deepens,  till  it  is  gone.  Why,  then,  should  we  long 
to  sit  awake  by  the  expiring  embers?  No,  let  us 
not  live  in  the  light  of  the  past.  Let  us  rather  go 
and  sleep  with  our  loved  ones.  The  shadows  may 
have  their  victory  over  us  and  over  all  that  is  ours. 
When  we  awaken  it  will  be  in  the  sunlight  of  another 
day  and  in  the  warmth  and  gladness  of  an  unknown 
sun. 

When  the  little  boys  were  to  retire  to-night  they 
lingered  to  talk  over  their  plans  for  to-morrow.     To 
327 


328     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  ajid  Wayside 

them  there  is  no  evening;  it  is  all  morning.  Their 
drowsy  eyelids  closed  over  visions  of  coming  pleas- 
ures, which  were  more  real  to  them  than  the  memo- 
ries of  the  day.  Sleep  drew  a  transparent  veil 
before  their  gaze,  leaving  what  they  saw,  not 
obscured,  but  only  softened  and  dimmed  in  their 
dreams.  We  must  shut  off  the  sunlight  with  cur- 
tains in  the  morning,  and  thus  prolong  the  night, 
that  they  may  have  sufficient  rest.  They  are  too 
eager  for  the  future.  It  is  so  bright  and  so  charm- 
ing that  they  will  not  so  much  as  turn  to  glance  at 
the  past.  And  thus  it  was  in  the  morning  of  life: 
looking  to  the  future,  to  delightsome  things  to 
come;  the  most  of  which  never  came,  or  coming, 
were  not  what  they  appeared  to  be  when  viewed 
from  the  distance.  But  we  now  look  back  on  what 
has  been  as  things  that  are  secure.  Those  best 
days  of  the  past  are  eternal  days.  The  sun  will 
never  set  upon  them.  The  clouds  pass  over  them, 
and  the  rain,  and  veil  them  from  our  view,  but 
when  we  look  again,  there  they  are,  serene  and 
sweet  in  the  distance.  They  were  made  immortal 
by  a  good  deed  given  or  received,  by  an  act  of  love 
and  of  service,  by  a  bonfire  of  friendship,  by  a 
triumph  over  temptation,  by  a  smile  or  a  tear,  or  a 
wedding  or  a  birth.  They  are  treasures  which 
neither  moth  nor  rust  can  corrupt,  nor  thieves 
break  through  and  steal.  Each  one  of  their  rising 
suns  was  a  new  golden  coin  from  the  mint  of  God. 
He  who  takes  his  journey  into  the  beyond  with  his 


Expiring  Embers  329 

scrip  filled  with  them  will  forever  remain  a  patrician 
in  the  city  of  pearl. 

A  woodsman  brought  us  a  present  of  a  little 
fawn.  We  cared  for  it  tenderly,  but  to-day  I  found 
it  sleeping,  and  when  I  thought  to  waken  it,  it  slept 
on.  Its  slender  limbs  were  cold,  and  I  sought  to 
warm  them.  Placing  my  hand  to  its  side,  its  little 
heart  was  fluttering  like  a  bird.  Its  sleep  was  deep 
and  painless.  Why,  even  this  child  of  the  forest, 
nameless,  aimless,  with  no  higher  object  in  living 
than  to  live,  is  so  cared  for  that  its  life  goes  out  in 
peaceful  repose. 

Is  this  what  men  call  the  King  of  Terrors?  Is 
this  drifting  away  that  which  men  look  forward  to 
with  dread?  For  indeed,  it  shall  come  to  us  in  no 
other  way  than  it  came  to  this  innocent  fawn — a 
fluttering  heart,  benumbing  limbs,  fading  light, 
voices,  however  near,  seeming  to  come  from  afar, 
and  at  last  silence  and  perfect  repose.  We  need 
not  regard  Death  as  a  personage  of  much  conse- 
quence. Who  is  he?  Nobody  but  the  Lord's 
liveried  servant,  standing  at  the  door  to  swing  it 
open.  There  is  no  more  reason  why  we  should  fear 
him  than  his  prototype  at  the  door  of  the  home  of 
a  friend.  There  we  do  not  think  of  the  usher.  We 
see  the  light  in  the  broad  windows,  forms  behind 
the  lace  curtains,  and  catch  a  strain  of  music,  a 
whiff  of  flowers,  and  hear  the  continuous  sound  of 
many  voices,  and  we  feel  by  anticipation  the  clasp 
of   greeting,   and   see   smiling   faces   of   welcome. 


330     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

What  has  the  black-plumed  porter  to  do  with  us 
but  to  open  the  door? 

The  days  are  so  bright,  cool,  and  happy  that  I 
part  regretfully  with  each  one  as  it  fades  away  into 
the  zodiacal  light  which  is  pinned  against  the  west- 
ern sky  with  a  peculiarly  white  star.  This  light 
continues  till  near  midnight,  when  ocasionally  it  is 
replaced  by  the  rosy  borealis.  The  moon  will 
deprive  us  of  these  pale  lights,  but  she  is  wel- 
come— looking  down  at  us  through  her  green  veil 
of  pines,  and  springing  bridges  of  dimpling  gold 
across  the  water.  I  part  with  the  day  that  has  now 
closed,  regretfully,  because  it  can  never  come 
again.  It  is  an  expended  part  of  my  inheritance  of 
the  joy  of  life — and  I  am  by  that  much  poorer. 
We  cannot  live  upon  the  income  of  time.  Faith 
never  can  attain  to  the  certainty  of  sight.  Shall  I 
have  an  eternity  of  such  days,  beginning  with  the 
morning  when  I  shall  awake  from  the  long,  deep 
sleep  of  life?  If  so,  shall  we  not  fling  them  care- 
lessly behind  us,  like  prodigals,  because  we  shall 
have  an  inexhaustible  and  ever-infinite  store  of  them 
before  us?  If  so,  may  we  not  doubt  whether  we 
shall  prize  them  and  enjoy  them  as  we  do  the  few 
blessed  hours  that  are  allotted  to  us  here?  If  the 
lake  below  me  beat  upon  and  laved  sands  of  gold, 
if  the  shores  glittered  with  precious  stones,  and  all 
the  rivers  washed  and  drifted  them,  and  the  glacial 
moraines  were  heaps  of  them,  would  they  not  be- 
come a  weariness?     Would  we  not  ask  rather  the 


Expiring  Embers  331 


fading  grass  and  the  falling  leaves?  Nay,  the  very 
brevity  of  life,  the  fewness  and  precariousness  of 
our  days,  render  them  more  precious.  The  bee 
may  be  drowned  in  honey.  We  may  have  as  happy 
days  here  as  it  is  possible  for  any  one  to  have  in 
heaven. 

We  cannot  have  here  a  view  of  the  whole  starry 
hemisphere:  to  obtain  it  we  must  take  a  boat  and 
row  out  into  the  lake;  but  there  are  vistas  large  and 
small  through  the  foliage,  which  possess  some  of 
the  properties  of  the  telescope.  Through  one  of 
these  the  rising  Mars  alternately  flashes  and  is 
hidden  by  the  wind-blown  foliage,  his  brilliance 
enhanced  by  his  solitariness  and  his  fitfulness,  and 
by  the  green-blackness  of  the  leafy  robe  upon  which 
he  appears  to  be  set.  Through  a  larger  vista  over- 
head four  bright  stars  are  visible.  The  emerald  is 
a  lovely  gem.  It  has  the  color  which  the  eye, 
trained  to  the  beauty  of  verdure,  loves  best  to  rest 
upon,  therefore  we  pardon  the  emerald's  lack  of  the 
brilliance  of  the  diamond,  but  in  one  of  these  stars 
I  perceive  the  sparkle  of  an  emerald  sun.  It  has 
the  serenity  of  the  one  stone  with  the  emphasis  of 
the  other.  A  star  near  it  is  white,  with  the  slight- 
est trace  of  yellow,  and  another,  near  the  two,  is 
for  a  star  of  rather  a  dull  red.  The  color  of  the 
green  sun  is  light,  but  positive,  and  its  ray  is  pecu- 
liarly beautiful.  Each  of  the  three  stars  throws  the 
color  of  its  neighbor  into  contrast.     I  do  not  re- 


332     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

member  what  other  metals,  if  any,  beside  copper, 
burn  with  a  green  light,  but  I  wondered  if  it  were 
not  that  metal  in  the  photosphere  of  the  emerald 
star  which  gave  its  beautiful  color.  If  the  sun  be 
a  copper  sun,  then  its  planets  must  be  copper  plan- 
ets. May  not  the  whole  system,  of  which  the  cop- 
per sun  is  a  center,  be  a  sort  of  verdigris  hell  for 
cheeky  people!  This  new  idea  is  respectfully  sub- 
mitted to  theologians,  with  the  suggestion  that  in 
making  out  their  eschatological  system  I  will  con- 
tribute my  copper  sun,  with  its  copper  worlds,  as  a 
place  where  moral  brassiness  may  be  eliminated  by 
attrition. 

One  is  almost  always  led  by  the  contemplation 
of  the  clear  heavens  at  night  to  think  of  the  future 
state  of  existence.  In  such  a  presence  one  does 
not  like  to  think  of  his  life  as  a  phosphorescent 
bubble,  rising  out  of  a  marsh,  glowing  and  floating 
a  moment  on  the  surface  or  drifting  a  little  way  on 
the  air,  and  then  vanishing  out  of  being.  One 
would  like  to  live  and  have  something  of  the  higher 
starry  life.  The  astronomer  spoils  the  skies  by  his 
measurements  and  his  thermometers,  especially 
when  he  describes  the  zero  of  cold  supposed  to 
exist  in  the  interplanetary  spaces,  and  when  he  tells 
us  that  he  has  to  employ  a  line  a  hundred  million 
of  miles  long  for  his  foot-rule.  The  stars  do  not 
look  so.  They  are,  to  all  appearances,  very  soci- 
able, and  shine  as  closely  together  as  a  church 
choir.     While  they  are  sociable  they  do  not  appear 


Expiring  Embers  333 

to  be  in  rivalry  or  envious  of  each  other.  There  is 
a  faint  little  twinkler  near  my  splendid  emerald 
star,  which  just  keeps  on  shining  as  calmly  as  if  it 
were  the  only  star  in  the  skies.  And  then  they  are 
quiet,  and  self-possessed,  and  kindly.  Star  society 
would  seem  to  be  a  very  agreeable  social  circle  in 
which  to  live. 

As  the  sun  descended  this  evening  I  was  not  sur- 
prised, nor  when  it  became  dark,  nor  when  my  loved 
ones  retired  to  their  rest,  nor  when  the  camp-fire 
burned  low;  nor  shall  I  be  when,  a  little  later,  I 
shall  drowsily  retire  to  my  own  repose.  And  yet  it 
is  the  common  experience  for  people  to  be  startled 
and  saddened  by  the  first  full  conviction  that  they 
are  old.  It  comes  like  death,  suddenly,  however 
ample  and  oft-repeated  the  warning.  The  habit  of 
regarding  one's  self  as  young  becomes  a  fixed  habit, 
and  it  continues  till  rudely  broken  by  some  irresist- 
ible evidence  that  it  has  outlasted  its  time.  But 
the  conviction  once  admitted  to  its  place,  one  be- 
comes accustomed  to  the  new  situation,  and  begins 
to  enjoy  the  prerogatives  of  old  age.  There  is  usu- 
ally, strange  to  say,  greater  confidence  in  the  stabil- 
ity and  security  of  life  than  when  young.  This 
comes  of  experience.  The  aging  person  has  seen 
so  many  around  him  die — his  kindred  passing  away 
one  by  one,  his  old  acquaintances  going  or  gone — 
that  he  unconsciously  loses  the  instinctive  sense  of 
personal  danger.      He  acquires  a  feeling  of  exemp- 


334     Mtisings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

tion  from  the  common  fate.  Possibly  this  is  a 
providential  preparation,  so  that  our  last  years  may 
not  be  marred  by  fear  of  that  which  is  inevitable 
and  not  distant — that  clouds  and  premature  dark- 
ness and  chilly  and  dismal  rains  may  not  overshadow 
our  setting  sun.  This  freedom  from  care  about 
death  is  not  the  result  of  an  intellectual  condition, 
but  only  a  placid  habit  of  mind.  Intellectually  one 
becomes  accustomed  to  the  idea  of  the  approaching 
end,  and  here  again  death  itself  is  obscured,  almost 
hidden,  from  the  mind,  by  solicitude  for  the  inter- 
ests which  will  be  affected  by  it.  It  becomes  the 
center  of  business  ramifications.  One  tries  to  put 
his  affairs  in  shape  so  that  they  will  suffer  no  harm 
from  his  perpetual  absence.  This  is  in  part, 
habit.  Men  will  do  it  who  have  no  family  to  pro- 
vide for,  or  whose  sons  and  daughters  are  each 
richer  than  they.  But  it  has  usually  the  leading 
motive  of  love,  the  interests  of  children,  which 
come  to  be  more  highly  prized  and  solicitously 
looked  after  than  one's  own  interests.  All  these 
things  surround  the  coming  event  and  hide  its  out- 
lines. The  fear  of  death  is  a  panoply  of  life,  which 
falls  away  when  its  uses  are  gone.  Very  few  people, 
as  they  come  near  to  the  change,  experience  any 
fear  of  it.  In  youth  I  was  very  much  terrified  by 
the  descriptions  of  the  horrors  of  the  death-bed, 
painted  by  revivalist  preachers;  but  though  I  have 
seen  many  die,  I  never  saw  any  such  scene  of  physi- 
cal distress  and  mental  agony.      It  is  a  process  of 


Expiring  Embers  335 

nature,  and  is  gradual,  gentle,  and  painless.  If 
there  be  any  acute  disease  of  local  parts,  the  phy- 
sician stills  its  clamor  of  pain.  "Do  not  let  me 
suffer,"  said  General  Grant  to  his  physicians,  as  he 
found  his  strength  for  communicating  with  them 
fading  out.  There  was  but  little  danger  of  his 
suffering. 

If  a  man's  self-culture  have  been  in  the  divine 
directions,  his  faith,  hope,  and  charity  ripen  and 
sweeten.  He  is  kindlier  in  his  convictions,  more 
tolerant  in  his  differences.  Most  old  people  be- 
come liberal  in  their  theological  views,  unless  they 
have  sedulously  cultivated  bigotry — in  which  case 
they  are  liable  to  lose  all  semblance  to  Christ. 
Your  hotspur  theologian  is  always  a  boy.  I  have 
seen  some  amusing  examples  of  a  sweet-spirited  old 
Christian  trying  to  keep  up  his  youthful  religious 
rancor.  He  uses  the  old  phrases,  but  the  vitriol 
has  been  all  washed  out  of  them,  and  he  puts  some 
softening  qualification  into  his  uncertain  certainties. 
His  love  is  not  so  consuming,  but  it  is  tenderer  and 
has  a  wider  range.  But  on  the  other  hand,  if  he 
have  cultivated  evil  passions,  so  do  they  ripen  and 
concentrate  in  malignity.  It  is  an  ominous  fact 
that  the  unrestrained  worse  side  of  human  nature 
intensifies  with  the  fading  away  of  physical  vitality. 
The  most  venomous  souls  I  have  ever  known  in- 
habited bodies  which  were  worn  out  and  falling  to 
pieces. 

I  step  out  from  my  cabin  door  upon  a  path  where 


336     Musings  by  Camp- Fire  and  Wayside 

for  fifteen  years  I  have  walked  and  returned,  con- 
structing a  thought  and  then  pausing  to  write  it 
down.  The  trees  are  dappled  like  fawns  by  the 
sifting  light  of  the  morning  sun.  The  whole  high 
island  is  the  work  of  Nature  undisturbed,  except  by 
the  occupancy  of  the  cabins  and  the  trails  connect- 
ing them — and  above  these  she  has  flung  arches  of 
sprays.  Shall  we  find  anything  better  in  any  other 
or  future  life?  I  cannot  imagine  it.  I  do  not 
believe  anything  prettier  or  more  refreshing  ever 
was  or  will  be. 

In  the  old  time  of  river  navigation,  when  the 
Mississippi  and  her  confluences  were  the  only  ave- 
nues of  access  to  her  vast  and  magnificent  valley,  we 
were  accustomed  to  loiter  at  the  roughly  built  log 
tavern  of  the  period,  or  walk  up  and  down  the  land- 
ing, waiting  the  coming  steamboat.  The  shores  of 
the  stream  were  covered  with  forests,  and  the  wind- 
ing channel  gave  but  short  vistas  of  its  waters. 
But  while  yet  miles  away  the  boat  would  blow  its 
hoarse  blast,  which  coming  through  the  trees  was 
softened  into  solemnity,  and  we  could  sometimes 
see  her  pillars  of  smoke  rising  against  the  horizon. 
Then  all  was  busy  excitement,  a  hurrying  to  and 
fro  of  stevedores,  truckmen,  and  passengers. 
When  she  had  landed  and  made  her  exchanges,  and 
turned  her  prow  again  into  the  streajn,  there  was 
fluttering  of  handkerchiefs  from  decks  to  shore,  and 
not  infrequently  some  tears. 


^. 


^ 


Expiring  Embers  337 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  hear  the  sound  of  the 
coming  ship  more  distinctly  as  it  approaches.  She 
is  past  due,  and  cannot  delay  much  longer.  Already 
I  see  her  plumes  of  smoke  and  hear  the  plash  of  her 
wheels,  and  I  step  upon  her  decks  for  a  journey 
into  the  Unknown,  from  which  there  is  no  return. 


500.9 
G783m 

Gray 

Musings  by  camp-fire  and  wayside 


ISSUED    TO 


500.9 
G783m 

Gray 

Musings   by   camp-fire   and  Wciyside 


